Autumn 1943
Ominous clouds scudded across the sky as Olive churned the butter in the chilly dairy. At least the exercise kept her warm against the draughts whistling under the door and through the badly fitting windows. She was making more than the quota required for the Controlling Committee, in charge of the islanders’ rations, planning to exchange a pat of butter for some fish. Her mouth drooled at the very thought of the taste of fresh fish after so long without. Hard to get, with the restrictions on the fishermen, but not impossible if you had something as valuable as butter to offer in payment. Olive missed the taste of meat as well, another rare commodity.
As she turned the heavy wooden handle, Olive chuckled at a story she had heard the day before. An inspection was due from the Feldkommandantur, checking the number of pigs belonging to a farmer who had, against regulations, saved a dead animal for himself. So he hid the dead pig in his pregnant wife’s bed as she was about to give birth. Needless to say, it wasn’t found. She wished she could share the story with Wolfgang, and although he would have found it funny, it would have put him in a difficult situation. Olive sighed, her loyalties divided, as always. She hadn’t anticipated the downside of loving an enemy. Initially, it was easy to be swept along in the aftermath of falling in love, but now she had to be so careful about what she said to anyone, even her oldest friends, as not only would she be a pariah, but if it got back to Bill…She shuddered. And when she did meet Wolfgang she was constantly watching to see no-one saw them together. Not at all relaxing. The islanders had always been gossipers, but now it had escalated, everyone looking over their shoulder, worried about informers.
The butter finished, Olive returned to the relative warmth of the kitchen, where she had been cooking a pot of vegetable soup in a hay-box. The lack of fuel had made it an essential way of cooking food and at least there was no shortage of hay on the farm. Earlier Olive had made a steam pudding from grated carrots, grated potatoes and oats. She was becoming good at improvisation, just like the other housewives on the starving island. As she made herself a cup of ground acorn coffee, Olive forced down the rising anger against the Germans and their invasion of her home. Bloody war! When would it ever end? Oh, to be free to eat what you liked, go where you liked…Ironically, one of the few bright spots of these blighted days was seeing Wolfgang, someone she wouldn’t have met but for the Occupation. She smiled wryly at the notion and took a cautious sip of the bitter coffee. Their next meeting was arranged for later that day and her stomach flipped in anticipation. She hadn’t seen him since a recent evening at the Gaumont in Town. After her mother died, Olive hadn’t bothered to go to the cinema for months. But once Wolfgang had told her he went as often as he could, she made an effort to go.
For once it had been an English film, The Great Victor Herbert, a romantic musical and not German propaganda. Even the Germans seemed to enjoy it. All entertainment was vetted by the Germans and, with the curfew of 9pm strictly enforced, audiences had to travel home as quickly as they could after a show. This made it harder for Olive living in the outer parish of St Peters. The Germans sat on one side of the audience, locals on the other. Olive had cycled in with her friend Elsie. At the cinema she’d been able to get close enough to Wolfgang to exchange letters, without Elsie being any the wiser. They’d set up the practice weeks ago. No words were spoken, a mere nod of their heads being the only acknowledgment.
Forcing down the coffee – she needed to make some more treacle from boiled sugar beet – Olive wondered how long she could risk being out that afternoon. Her excuse, which was genuine, was the need to cycle into Town for whatever supplies she could get, including the promised fish from Henry. Long queues at the few remaining shops guaranteed a protracted trip. But she wanted – needed – to spend at least an hour with Wolfgang if she was to survive until the next meeting. He hardly had time to spare these days, being foisted with extra responsibility since fellow officers had been drafted to the Russian front. Today they were meeting on her way back from St Peter Port, at Kings Mills near a farm he had to visit.
He was waiting for her, the jeep parked in a narrow lane off Rue à L’eau. In spite of her weariness after the ride into Town and the hours-long queue, Olive fairly threw herself into his arms. Laughing, he had to steady them both.
‘You are pleased to see me, yes? And I am happy to see you, mein Liebling. It has been too long.’ So saying, Wolfgang took her face in his hands and kissed her until her head span. The familiar fuzzy, warm feeling spread through her insides and she gasped.
He released her and she saw his eyes shining with tenderness.
‘Come, let us sit together. I have a blanket and a thermos of coffee and we can sit under those trees.’ He nodded towards a copse on the other side of a stone wall, out of sight from anyone in the lane. Olive leaned her bike against the wall and Wolfgang helped her up and onto the other side. A large grey, army blanket lay stretched on the ground. She sat down, smoothing the old, pleated skirt over her knees. The air was warmer than earlier and she hadn’t needed a coat, just her woollen hand-knitted jumper. Olive dearly wished she possessed prettier, more feminine clothes, but even if they had been available, Bill would have vetoed any purchase as unnecessary for a farmer’s wife.
She sniffed at the aroma as Wolfgang poured the hot, brown liquid into two mugs.
‘It’s real coffee!’
He looked sheepish as he handed her a mug.
‘We still have some supplies coming from France, but we have been warned they are running out. I could get you some if you wish?’
She was torn. To have real coffee! But how would she explain it to Bill? She couldn’t say she had bartered for some as only the Germans had access to such luxuries. Reluctantly, she shook her head.
‘Thank you, that’s kind, but I’d better not. I’ll make do with enjoying it while I can.’ She took a slow sip and smiled at him. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Good. I am pleased I can offer you some little treat at least. If not for this war, I would shower you with many gifts – flowers, chocolates, jewellery–’
She laughed. ‘Sounds wonderful! Is that how all Germans treat their girlfriends?’ It was the first time she had referred to herself as a girlfriend and, seeing him frown, wondered if she had gone too far.
‘Of course, if they want to woo her properly. Did not your husband woo you the same?’ His clear gaze offered no criticism and she sighed in relief.
‘Bill?! I was lucky to get a half-pint of cider at the local pub! It would never have occurred to him to buy me presents, either before our wedding or after. It’s not to say all local men are like him, some of my friends were wooed with small gifts. Nothing fancy, mind. A little posy of wild flowers or a handkerchief, if you were lucky.’ Olive felt a spurt of anger snake up inside her against Bill. What a fool she had been to saddle herself with a husband like him when men like Wolfgang were…she stopped before adding the word ‘available’. Wolfgang was not available, he was an enemy soldier and she was a farmer’s wife. There could be no happy ending for them.
‘Liebling? What is the matter? You look so sad, have I said something to upset you?’ He thumped his head. ‘Of course, my talk of flowers and chocolates must have, how you say, twisted the knife in, yes? Please forgive me. I meant no harm.’ He gave a tentative smile, his head on one side.
‘It’s not you, it’s me being silly. There’s nothing to forgive. Now, is there any more coffee?’ she said brightly, wanting to lift her maudlin mood. Stupid of her to be like this when she really wanted to enjoy the precious time with him.
Wolfgang grinned and topped up her mug before pouring the last small drop into his own.
‘Prost!’ he said, touching his mug against hers. ‘I know it should be wine, but we cannot be too correct, can we? Next time I will bring wine and then it will be a proper toast, yes?’
She giggled, glad the tension had lifted. While they finished their coffee, they talked about their childhoods, one of the safer subjects they could choose. Olive knew Wolfgang, one of three boys, had been born in Berlin, his father a doctor and his mother a nurse before they married. All the boys had been to university and gone into professions before the war. As she lay wrapped in his arms, Olive pictured the young Wolfgang as an earnest student, keen to work with animals, rather than humans like his father. He admitted to finding animals easier to like and she had to agree men could be pretty beastly, especially to each other. He made no secret of his contempt for the Nazis and Herr Hitler, but had been obliged to fight for his country. At least he was spared having to kill people while stationed in Guernsey. Though islanders found guilty of certain crimes could be shot, it would not be him who pulled the trigger.
She leant her head against Wolfgang’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, drinking in the moment. She must just accept how wonderful it was to be with a man who loved her, even though he could never be hers. At least not until the end of the war and she would be free to divorce Bill. Oh, but then she would be in heaven!