Xanthe
St Helier, Liberation Day, May 2019
All around her, the air vibrates with whistling, and a flash of olive and tangerine cuts across the sky. Lorikeets! A moment later, she hears the cackling laugh of kookaburras.
Xanthe wakes up, startled. The bird sounds in her dream belong to Sydney but when she turns in bed, she sees Daniel lying beside her. She is still in Jersey. But not for long. She sighs and turns over. Ever since deciding to use her own experiences to help other interns, she has been on a high, but now that it’s almost time to put her plan into action, she is assailed by doubts.
She sighs again, louder this time, and Daniel stirs.
‘Are you okay?’ he mumbles, half asleep. He reaches for her but she avoids his outstretched arm, sits up, hugs her knees, and stares moodily into space.
‘I’m apprehensive about going home. I was so excited about agitating for an inquiry and setting up a counselling service for interns, but now I’ve got cold feet,’ she says. ‘I’m a doctor. What do I know about advocacy?’
Wide awake now, he pulls her in and puts his arm around her.
‘It’s a great idea, Xan. Don’t be put off just because it’s something you’ve never done before. You know what they say, when you let go of what you are, you might discover what you can be.’
Her eyes widen and suddenly she is laughing. She’s laughing so much that her stomach hurts and she is wheezing while he is looking at her, clearly perplexed.
‘I’m sorry, but that just cracked me up. Where on earth did you hear that? It sounds like one of those pseudo-philosophical messages they print on greeting cards.’
She stops in case he is offended but he is surveying her with an indulgent smile.
‘That pseudo-philosopher was Lao-tse, who wrote it about two thousand years ago, and I actually think there’s a lot of truth in it. Anyway, it cheered you up no end.’
That’s one of the things she loves about him, that he doesn’t take things personally. His ego doesn’t intrude. She loves that he sees her in a way no-one has ever seen her before, the way she has always longed to be seen, without judgement, criticism or expectations. She has always slotted into the expectations of others or fallen short of their approval. She was the daughter expected to follow her family tradition, the student expected to excel in exams, the intern expected to know all the answers, the lover expected to fulfil her partners’ erotic fantasies. But to Daniel she is Xanthe, and that is enough for him.
He holds her against him, caressing her with long, slow strokes, and aroused by his touch, the heat of his naked body, and the unmistakeable intensity of his gaze, she feels a quiver between her legs.
She is pulling off her T-shirt when she notices the time on the alarm clock and leaps out of bed with a shout of dismay.
‘Shit! He’ll be here soon!’
It’s Liberation Day, and Bob Blampied is due to pick them up for the commemoration ceremony. ‘This is St Helier’s big day,’ he’d said. ‘Every man and his dog will be there.’
Twenty minutes later they rush outside. Daniel is still buttoning his white Oxford shirt, and she is fumbling with a rubber band to draw her hair into a ponytail. Bob is already waiting in his Triumph and although a strong breeze is blowing on this bright May morning, tossing the boughs on the oak and chestnut trees, he has the hood down as usual.
Instead of his peaked cap, blue jeans and maroon cardigan, he is wearing a white shirt, red and white striped tie, and a well-worn grey suit, and she realises that for him this is not just a holiday. It’s a meaningful occasion.
He waves them inside the car and guns the engine even before they’ve fastened their seatbelts. As they speed along the streets of St Helier, she notices the festive atmosphere in town. Windows are festooned with bunting, banners and flags, and the roads are crammed with people heading for the town centre.
Bob parks the car in a side street and they join the throng filling the roadway. In Liberation Square, a huge Union Jack is hanging over the balcony of the Pomme d’Or, with smaller flags draped along the railing.
Nudging her arm, Bob points to the flag. ‘That takes me back to the scene in 1945 as if it was yesterday. The HMS Beagle had just docked in the harbour and two naval officers came ashore and hoisted the Union Jack first on top of the harbourmaster’s building, and then here, because the Pomme d’Or was the headquarters of the German Water Police. You can’t imagine how thrilling it was to see our rightful flag there again after five long years.’
As they take their seats on the white chairs that have been set up in the centre of the square, a woman with wispy grey hair and a tartan shawl next to Xanthe leans towards her.
‘I was two years old when the Tommies landed that day,’ she says and her wrinkled face lights up at the memory. ‘My dad picked me up and placed me in a Tommy’s arms. It didn’t half give the poor lad a shock! My dad said it was a historic moment and I should never forget it. And I haven’t. I come here every year. Wouldn’t miss it for quids.’
In the distance, a military band is playing rousing marches. Then the music stops, people fall silent, and all eyes turn to the far end of the square where a solemn procession is advancing towards the Pomme d’Or.
Leading the parade is an official bearing the Royal Mace. ‘The Mace symbolises our connection with the Crown,’ Bob whispers. ‘The officials behind it are the States members and our judges, the Jurats.’
Xanthe cranes forward. Walking at the head of the officials, wearing a scarlet robe trimmed with ermine and hung with medals, is Edward de Courcy. He enters the Pomme d’Or and reappears a few moments later on the hotel’s balcony.
The choir conductor, a young woman in a high-necked white blouse under a navy blazer, raises her baton and schoolchildren in burgundy uniforms rise and start singing patriotic songs. Then everyone joins in what sounds like an anthem. Xanthe can’t catch the Jèrriais words but she senses their heartfelt intensity.
In a voice hoarse with emotion, Bob says, ‘That’s called “My Beautiful Jersey”.’
A hush falls over the crowd as the Bailiff picks up the microphone and begins to address the crowd. Xanthe hopes his speech won’t be too long and boring.
‘We have gathered here on this special day, as we do every year on May 9, to commemorate the courage and endurance of those who lived through the Occupation, five dark years that tested everyone’s strength to the limit and should never be forgotten,’ he begins.
‘We are fortunate that still among us are some men and women who lived through those years. By sharing their memories with us, they ensure that younger generations won’t forget the hardship and oppression the people of Jersey suffered during the war. At this point I’d like to pay a special tribute to those who, at enormous risk to their own lives, sheltered slave labourers who escaped from horrific conditions.’
His searching glance rests on Bob, who is looking down at his large hands. Xanthe knows that he is embarrassed by praise for his wartime activities.
‘We are fortunate to live in freedom on this blessed island,’ the Bailiff continues. ‘This is a day for celebration, not recrimination. But I would be derelict in my obligation to the entire community, and indeed to history, if I were to ignore one group of residents who sadly did not receive the protection they deserved.’
Xanthe sits up. The atmosphere is palpitating with tension as people turn to their neighbours and a murmur runs through the crowd. She looks questioningly at Daniel, who raises his eyebrows and whispers, ‘I wonder where he’s going with that.’
His question is answered a moment later. ‘During the Occupation, our Jewish neighbours were identified, registered, and dispossessed of their businesses, their belongings, their homes and their liberty,’ the Bailiff says. ‘They lived in constant fear. Some were unable to endure the terror and killed themselves. Others were deported to German concentration camps where they were killed.
‘For many years, we have taken the easy way out and blamed the Germans. After all, they were the occupiers, the perpetrators. But perhaps the time has come to look history squarely in the eye and confront an uncomfortable truth.’
The Bailiff pauses, looks around, and continues. ‘It has been easy to justify inaction on the grounds of scale. After all, there were so few of them. Why would anyone stick their necks out and antagonise the occupier on behalf of such a small group? But when did the size of an oppressed group ever provide a morally cogent reason for not only abandoning them to their fate, but for facilitating that process?
‘We know that the lawyers and Jersey officials were just obeying the law when they passed the names of their Jewish clients to the Germans, together with a list of their assets. We all know what Charles Dickens said about the law, but in this case the law wasn’t just an ass. It was evil, immoral and racist, and sadly, our officials complied with it unquestioningly.’
His tone, which had been quiet and measured, has grown louder, and his words ring out over the square with the force of a prophet addressing his people.
Xanthe is squeezing Daniel’s hand so hard that hers has become numb. All around her, people seem frozen. No-one moves or makes a sound. From their expressions, she sees that most of them are stunned and incredulous. As she is. This is not what they had come to hear and they are indignant but spellbound at the same time.
‘Can you believe this?’ she whispers. Without replying, Daniel squeezes back.
‘In life, we learn from failure, not success,’ the Bailiff says. ‘And from what took place here, we can see what happens when an evil law, unchallenged, becomes normality. But, you might ask, what could they have done? Perhaps not much. But they could have hesitated, challenged, objected, delayed, or even refused to hand over lists of their Jewish neighbours. It might not have affected the outcome, but it would have been a stand for morality.’
He pauses, looks around the crowd, and his eyes rest briefly on Daniel. ‘I’d like to conclude by making an apology to the Jersey Jewish community and the descendants of those who suffered or perished during the Occupation, on account of our government’s failure to protect them.’
As soon as the Bailiff ends his address, Daniel is on his feet, clapping loudly. So are Xanthe and Bob. A scattering of applause resounds in the square, but there is an angry undercurrent, and heated discussions and arguments break out.
‘Well I never,’ the man in front of Bob is saying to his neighbour. ‘My parents lived through the Occupation and they always said how people helped each other. Of course there were Jerrybags and an informer or two, but they never mentioned no Jews. So why make all this fuss now?’
The breeze has intensified, and the flags make a sharp slapping sound. The elderly woman beside Xanthe pulls her tartan shawl closer around her bony shoulders.
‘Well, we’ve never had a Liberation Day address like that one,’ she says, her eyes bright at the prospect of controversy. ‘He’s really put the cat among the pigeons now!’
‘What do you think about what he said?’ Xanthe asks.
‘Well, when you’ve lived as long as I have, dearie, you know that people are capable of everything, good and bad. Myths are all very well, but it’s important to let the truth come out, isn’t it? One of my neighbours hid a Jewish woman in his attic and got some award from Jerusalem, I think it was, but most people just closed their eyes to what was happening. Reckoned later they didn’t know anything about it.’
Xanthe turns to Bob, who is smoothing down his windswept white hair. He looks euphoric. ‘I never thought he had it in him. He has started a conversation we’ve never had before.’
Xanthe is still squeezing Daniel’s hand. ‘I think you’ve just had your thesis validated in public. Did you have any idea he’d come up with this?’
‘Not the slightest. The last thing I heard him say on the subject was You weren’t here.’
As they walk away from the square, Bob stops to talk to a tall man with iron grey hair who is standing at the back of the crowd.
As Xanthe watches from a distance, she recognises his intense expression, and the unforgiving cast of his craggy features. It’s the man she saw in the hotel bar soon after she arrived in St Helier, who refused to talk to a reporter and stomped out.
‘I thought it was time,’ she hears him saying.
Bob shakes his hand, nods, and rejoins her and Daniel.
‘That was Tom Gaskell,’ he says. ‘He’s been living overseas, but came back this year to visit the graves of two friends in St Mark’s cemetery. After the war he married a local lass who’d had a baby with a German soldier.’
Xanthe can hardly contain her excitement. She turns to look at Tom who has already disappeared in the crowd. So he was the man she had read about in Hugh’s journal, who had tried to escape from Jersey as a boy. And after the war, he had been big-hearted enough to marry one of the girls who had danced with the enemy who happened to be related to her … It was too much to take in.
She turns to Bob. ‘Do you know what happened to his wife?’
But before he can reply, a couple stop to ask him what he thinks about the Bailiff’s speech, and not wanting to intrude on their conversation, Xanthe and Daniel walk on, past carousels, jumping castles, and stalls selling pasties, Jersey hotpot and scones. When they reach a quiet street, she stops and looks at Daniel.
‘I can’t believe everything that’s happened. You and I came to this place to connect with distant relatives – I wasn’t even that interested in finding mine – and I discovered all these amazing connections. And we’ve found each other.’
He is smiling. ‘The wonderful, unfathomable connectedness of life.’
‘Another gift from the universe?’
In reply he throws his arms around her and they stand locked together, oblivious to the crowd, the noise and the activity all around them. She looks up and as he gazes into her eyes she feels he is looking straight into her soul.