Dr Jackson
St Helier, August 1944
Aoife’s traumatic story has obsessed me. I turn it over and over in my mind, like a Chinese puzzle that presents a different image on every side. Ever since confiding in me, she has become more withdrawn, and although I want to hold her in my arms and keep her safe for the rest of her life, I sense that she has retreated to some distant place beyond my reach.
My distress is compounded by a personal issue. Thinking about Aoife’s child inevitably turns my thoughts to Jamie, the son I’ve never met. My little boy is four now, and hardly a day passes that I don’t think about him. I long to hear his voice, to hold him and talk to him. What toys does he like? Is he quiet, playful or wilful? I imagine him as a lovable little tearaway, bright, energetic and full of mischief. I wonder what, if anything, Margaret has told him about me.
No matter how busy I am, my longing for him is a constant ache. The unfairness of it. Margaret continues to ignore my twenty-five-word messages, which is all the Red Cross allows us at the moment.
It was through the Red Cross that she recently sent me a photograph of Jamie on his birthday, her annual communication. I have framed it and placed it on my desk. As it wasn’t accompanied by a single word, I sensed that in sending the photo she was gloating.
This is what you’re missing because of your selfishness, it seemed to say. I wonder if she’ll take this resentment to the grave.
In the photo, a bonny little boy with straight fair hair and a wide smile is delightedly cradling a toy train, a birthday present that was not from me. The pain I feel is visceral.
From what I’ve observed of human nature, most of us are not wired to sustain extreme emotions, either joy or sorrow, for lengthy periods, and in time we settle to an emotional equilibrium we can live with. The alternative is to adjust our emotions with narcotic drugs. I’m aware that some of my colleagues have resorted to this in the past, but it’s an option I refuse to take. I would rather feel pain than become addicted.
By the time Bob Blampied appeared in my surgery this morning, I was functioning again, although at half strength. I looked up from the papers on my desk and was surprised to see this normally neat young man looking rather dishevelled.
From the way he panted and threw himself into a chair, I could see that he’d been rushing to get here. I soon found out why.
‘Ethel Carter has been deported!’ he gasped.
To say I was shocked is an understatement. Even though I knew she’d been arrested for possessing a radio and a rusty old rifle, I never imagined they would deport an elderly lady.
‘Do you know where they’ve sent her?’ I asked. I hoped it was France.
Bob’s usually cheerful face looked glum. ‘To Germany. They’ve taken her to some women’s prison near Berlin. Called Ravensbrück or something like that.’
‘A women’s prison? So maybe it won’t be too bad.’
But Bob’s expression didn’t convey optimism. ‘I was told it’s some sort of concentration camp and it’s staffed by SS guards,’ he said, and went on to explain that his informant was a German clerk who worked for the German administration.
‘Did he say how long for?’
Bob shrugged. ‘He didn’t know, but he asked me if she was a strong woman. I don’t think he was referring to physical strength.’
We sat in silence for a long time, letting the significance of that sink in. There was nothing to say. It was outrageous.
A dark mood settled over me as I contemplated her predicament. It would be an exaggeration to say I felt responsible for her plight, but I was keenly aware that if we hadn’t placed Sasha with her, she would still be living in her cosy little house tending her rose bushes instead of being at the mercy of SS guards in some far-off German camp.
Finally I snapped out of it. There was no point in dwelling on negative thoughts. ‘She might need warm clothes or some food,’ I suggested. ‘Can you find out from your chap if we can send her a parcel?’
Bob said he’d try. Then, glancing at his watch, he rose. A Polish slave labourer had escaped the previous evening, and Bob was on his way to drive him from the de Gruchy farmhouse to the Rosses in St Brelade.
‘I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Can’t risk being on the road after curfew in case they stop me and find him in the car.’
He was already at the door when he turned and said, ‘This chap is even more skeletal than the others. I’ve seen a lot of hungry prisoners, but this one devoured everything we put in front of him as if he hadn’t eaten for a year. I think those Organisation Todt overseers must be eating the food allotted to the prisoners.’
After Bob left, I realised that the way the Germans have been raiding the farms and cutting our rations, their own food supply must have dwindled as well. That could be another sign that the war is going badly for them, but with the scarcity of food here in Jersey, we’ll all be walking skeletons before it is over.
On Saturday morning I decided to get away from the house and my unsettling thoughts. A long ramble in the woods listening to the warbling of the birds, breathing in air sweetened by clovers, and strolling under spreading oaks and ancient beeches, is a salutary reminder of the wonders of nature and our small and insignificant part in it. But this time I heard few birdsongs. In light of what Bob had told me about the worsening plight of the prisoners, I wondered if some of them had been supplementing their diet with pigeons and wood grouse. Come to think of it, perhaps some of the locals had as well.
Not as refreshed after my ramble as I had hoped, I decided to go home via Royal Square and boost my spirits with a pint of Mary Ann at the Cock and Bottle. People were standing three-deep at the bar, and the outside tables were full. Apart from the unusual crowding, I noticed a frisson of excitement in the air. People were talking in animated voices the way they do when sharing salacious news.
Curious to find out what was going on, I looked around for a familiar face and saw Jack Lewis, the mechanic who always manages to fix my old Austin. He was at the bar and, seeing me, leaned in to say something to the barman. In a moment he was pushing his way through the crowd, weaving in between the tables, and almost spilling the frothing glasses he held as he made his way towards one of the outside tables where two of his workmates were waiting.
‘Come and have a drink with us, Doc,’ he said, setting the glasses on the table, and indicating that I should take one. I accepted on condition that the next round was on me.
After a few mouthfuls, I asked, ‘What’s going on today? What’s all the excitement about?’
‘Haven’t you heard the news, Dr Jackson?’ The speaker was Alan Drew, an electrician who had done some wiring at my home years ago.
I shook my head.
‘Just wait till you hear this!’ Jack burst in.
Alan sat forward, and his eyes were gleaming. ‘You know that slag Milly Deveraux who’s been going round with a Kraut?’
Although I’d never met Milly, I remembered young Tom talking about his sweetheart, but after he disappeared, I’d heard no more about her. Now it seemed she had taken up with a German soldier.
I felt a growing unease as the story unfolded.
The news that had stirred everyone up was that Milly’s German soldier had deserted from the army. She had hidden him in the attic of the house where she lived with her widowed mother until a neighbour reported seeing a man at the attic window. The next day the Gestapo burst into the house and hauled the deserter off to jail.
No-one knew what would happen next, but Jack supposed that he would probably be shot. ‘They shoot people for much less,’ he commented.
Although I’d never met this soldier, I admired him for having the courage of his convictions. He had obviously decided to stop fighting for Hitler despite the risk of being caught and court-martialled.
As far as Milly was concerned, I was ambivalent. It was disappointing that she had fraternised with a German, and I could only imagine how distraught Tom would have been to lose his sweetheart, and to a German at that. But at the same time, in a grudging way, I admired her. It was brave of her to hide him, and I wondered what would happen to her now.
It’s been several weeks since I last wrote in this journal, on account of several events that have taken place since I heard about Milly’s German boyfriend.
The following Monday, there was standing room only in the waiting room, and each patient I saw presented with so many emotional and physical problems that I had to spend an inordinate amount of time with each one.
As a result, I was running late for my ward round at the hospital, and I heaved a sigh of relief when I’d finally seen the last patient. I was writing up my notes as fast as I could, impatient to see Aoife, when, to my chagrin, the door opened and in walked another patient.
I looked up. Standing in front of me was a comely young girl whose blonde prettiness reminded me of a white rose. Her hair was pulled back from her face and coiled in a sort of roll at the back of her neck, probably to make herself look older.
She didn’t smile, and from her sad expression and distracted air, I saw that she was deeply troubled. My irritation at having to spend more time in the surgery was replaced by curiosity.
Before I could ask what was the matter, she burst into tears and heaved with sobs as she buried her face in her lace-edged handkerchief. I waited until she composed herself sufficiently to speak.
‘I’ve come to see you because Tom always told me how understanding you were. He said he always found it easy to talk to you,’ she said.
Two thoughts occurred to me simultaneously. The first was that the girl sitting in front of me was Milly. The second was a sense of guilt that I didn’t deserve Tom’s praise because the last time he came to see me, I had left the surgery on an urgent call, and neglected to find out what was on his mind. But it was futile to dwell on the past. I had to focus on the distraught girl in front of me.
‘How can I help you?’ I asked, although having heard that her deserter boyfriend had been arrested, I suspected there was nothing I could do.
She was blowing her nose and her shoulders were heaving again. ‘I heard they’re going to kill Konrad! I can’t bear to think about it. I can’t live without him. I don’t know what to do. Please, please, can you help us?’
I know from experience how desperate love can make you feel, and my heart ached for the poor girl. I felt like putting my arms around her to comfort her, but all I could do was mouth useless phrases.
‘I wish there was something I could do, but unfortunately there isn’t,’ I told her. ‘I don’t have any influence over the German administration or the military police, so they wouldn’t listen to me or rescind their decision.’
Then I remembered Bob Blampied telling me that he had a contact inside the German headquarters, the fellow who had told him about Mrs Carter’s deportation.
‘As soon as the war is over, we want to get married.’ She was sobbing. ‘He hates Hitler and the army and never wants to go back to Germany. He wants to live here.’
I didn’t bother pointing out that this attitude wouldn’t endear him to his superiors. ‘I’ll try to find out what’s happening to your Konrad,’ I said.
‘Please hurry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how long we’ve got.’ Still sobbing, she thanked me and walked out, shoulders hunched over, the picture of misery.
As promised, I spoke to Bob, and the information he passed on several days later was grim, but not unexpected.
‘They’ve got the young fellow in the police cell at the moment, but they all reckon he’ll soon be shot,’ Bob said.
I felt sorry for the soldier and for his heartbroken sweetheart, and didn’t relish the prospect of having to tell her what I’d found out. But next morning there was a shocking development.
Sitting in front of me was a new patient, a middle-aged woman with protruding teeth and big glasses who introduced herself as Mrs Deveraux. Although she was clearly trying to keep herself under control, she was almost incoherent and I wondered why she had come to see me.
‘Doctor, it’s about my daughter, Milly. I know she came to see you yesterday. Oh God, this can’t be true. It’s inhuman, that’s what it is.’
She bit her lip, trying not to break down. Taking a deep breath, she continued, ‘Poor Milly. Oh dear God, something must be done.’
‘Yes, I heard about her boyfriend,’ I said gently. ‘It really is terrible.’
I’d barely got that out when Mrs Deveraux became so agitated that I thought she might leap off her chair.
‘You don’t understand. That’s not why I’m here,’ she said. ‘It’s Milly. She told me to come and see you. Thinks you’re the only one who might get her out of this terrible situation.’
I couldn’t sort this out. ‘Milly in a terrible situation?’ I repeated. ‘What happened to her?’
At this, the poor woman gave up her attempt to appear calm, and broke down, shaking her head and muttering, ‘Oh God, please, don’t let that happen.’
Puzzled, I waited. After a few minutes, she raised her head and blurted, ‘They’ve arrested her, that’s what happened! They grabbed her yesterday afternoon, put poor Milly in handcuffs, shoved her into one of their black cars, and that was the last I saw of her. I rushed around to the police station but they won’t let me see her.’
Swallowing, she said, ‘Dr Jackson, I’ve heard they plan to execute her together with Konrad. Do you understand? You have to do something to save her!’ And she fixed me with an accusing stare, as if challenging me to refuse.
I was transfixed. Never did I expect to hear anything so appalling. My hands were shaking. Execute Milly? Surely they couldn’t do that.
But of course they could, especially when their authority was flouted, especially now that the war was going badly for them. Like wounded feral animals, they now posed more danger than ever.
‘If there was anything I could do, I would do it,’ I began, but she cut me short.
‘That’s not good enough! Milly trusts you,’ she repeated with that accusing look. ‘I don’t know who to turn to. You must know important people who might intervene. There’s no time to waste. I’d move heaven and earth if I could, but all I can do is beg you to help. This is a matter of life and death. Her life. And that means my life too. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t do whatever you can.’
After she had left, her words resounded in my head, and I tried desperately to think of anyone who might influence the Germans. But as far as I knew, no-one, not even the Bailiff himself, had ever tried to intervene to rescue any of our locals, including Tom and Mrs Carter.
But as Mrs Devereaux said, this was a matter of life and death; a young girl’s life was at stake.
Although I wasn’t personally acquainted with Bailiff de Courcy, I remembered my father speaking very highly of him. They had met during army service back in the Great War, and Father had admired his rectitude, a word that had intrigued me when he said it, which was probably why I still remembered it. It was a tenuous connection, if you could even call it that, but Mrs Deveraux’s desperate plea and Milly’s plight impelled me to make use of it.
But the more I thought about the Bailiff’s record where our citizens’ safety was concerned, the more dubious I felt about enlisting his help. He had done nothing to protect our Jewish citizens from deportation, and from what I had heard, he and his administration had facilitated the Nazis’ pernicious racial persecution by handing them a list of the Jews residing here.
But to be fair, I knew that the Bailiff had his hands full trying to navigate between Scylla and Charybdis – steering our leaky boat between his responsibilities to his citizens, and his need to cooperate with the occupiers.
When I explained to his secretary that the matter was urgent, she gave me an appointment for the following day.
Unfamiliar with the role of supplicant, I sat nervously in the Bailiff’s waiting room, hoping to persuade him to intervene.
George de Courcy was a man with smooth silver hair, a commanding presence and an air of noblesse oblige that suited his official position. In an effort to forge a personal connection, I mentioned my father.
He nodded. ‘I remember your father, a very fine man. And from the reports I hear about you, Dr Jackson, he must have been very proud of you,’ he said in a booming voice. ‘But do tell me, what brings you here? I gather it’s a matter of some urgency.’
After I’d explained the situation, he sat back in his carved armchair and nodded. ‘I have heard about that unfortunate case. It doesn’t bear thinking about. But I’m afraid I cannot interfere when our people break German laws.’
I sat forward, mindful that every word I uttered must count. ‘I do appreciate your difficult situation, and I’d like to explain that I’m asking you to intervene because of my compassion for this girl and her widowed mother,’ I began.
‘Milly Deveraux is a very young, unsophisticated girl who has acted on impulse, not realising that it might put her own life in danger. I think we’re all aware how all-consuming and impetuous young love can be, so it’s not difficult to imagine her desperation to protect her sweetheart. The Germans regard her action as criminal, but this is a girl with a blameless record, who threw caution to the wind because she was in love. She had no intention of breaking any laws.’
When I paused for breath, I saw that George de Courcy was giving me his whole attention, and that encouraged me to continue.
‘I’ve heard that the war is going badly for the Germans. Without putting too fine a point on it, do you think it possible to hint to the Feldkommandant that killing this young girl would arouse enormous antagonism here at a time when they might prefer to keep the locals on-side?’
As I spoke, it occurred to me that interceding on Milly’s behalf wouldn’t do the Bailiff’s reputation any harm either, but I refrained from saying that.
When I’d finished, he looked thoughtful.
‘You’d make an excellent barrister, Dr Jackson. I’ll see what I can do.’
As I left his office, I felt a lightness in my step for the first time in days. I hadn’t been able to help Tom or Mrs Carter, and perhaps I wouldn’t succeed in helping Milly either, but at least on this occasion, I had done my best.
A week later, on a drizzly, overcast morning, I watched as a large black truck made its way towards the cemetery at St Ouen. As it was passing a brick house with an attic, the passenger in the back looked up and tried to smile.
Standing at the attic window, tears streaming down her face, Milly waved a forlorn white lace handkerchief, and kept waving it long after the truck had disappeared from view.