Gradually things got organised, despite the fact that the population of Jersey was half what it had been. My bread was hard and unpalatable, but at least I was baking, though I had to be up every day before it was light. Mrs Flanders came to help with the bread, and in return, twice a day, I trekked over to Flanders Farm four miles away to help her with farm work and milking. She’d managed to commandeer several other women who owed her favours, and we gradually came to a rickety routine.
The result of this was that by the time the shop opened I already felt like I’d done a full day’s work. It was a wet summer, and it just made everything harder. Many bakeries had ceased to run, so the shop was always busy, despite the rationing.
One morning, Mrs Flanders was still there helping me lay out loaves when the shop door flew open and Rachel blew in, shaking a flurry of raindrops from her wet umbrella. Since our night at the harbour, we’d grown even closer, and now she called in every day on her way home from work so we could share supper. This morning’s visit was unusual.
‘Can we talk?’ she said. The set of her jaw told me she was angry.
Mrs Flanders stood up from under the counter from where she’d been stacking loaves in a crate.
‘Morning,’ Mrs Flanders said, with a breezy customer smile.
A sudden silence.
‘I wanted to talk to you on your own,’ Rachel said, glaring at me.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Mrs Flanders said huffily.
‘Just give me a few minutes and—’ But Rachel was already out, tugging at her umbrella, which was tangled in the door. Finally, she swore and abandoned it. ‘Wait! You’ll get soaked!’ I yelled. But by the time I went after her, she was already halfway down the street, going in the direction of the sea, her head bowed against the rain. I stood on tiptoes, brandishing the umbrella like a fool. ‘Rachel!’
She must have heard me, but she didn’t turn back. Already drenched from the squall, I dragged the umbrella back into the shop and shook it out onto the doormat.
‘Well,’ Mrs Flanders said. ‘What on earth was all that about?’
‘No idea,’ I said, handing her a loaf to wrap in brown paper.
‘Heavens, you don’t think she could be …?’ Mrs Flanders mimed a bump on her stomach.
‘Not Rachel. I’ve known her ages, and I know there isn’t anybody.’
‘That’s the thing with young girls,’ Mrs Flanders said. ‘They’re always getting themselves in trouble. Take Albert’s wife. I bet you didn’t know he married her on the rebound. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of those kiddies wasn’t even his.’
Mrs Flanders continued to tell me all Albert’s private business as we wrapped the bread, but I wasn’t paying any attention. I was worried about Rachel. Since the night we’d tried to leave, I felt connected to her somehow, and today there was something about her accusing manner that had told me it was bad news, and that it was somehow my fault.
Mrs Flanders and I loaded the rest of the bread into crates, ready for her to drive the van round to the hotels, to deliver their loaves and crusty rolls for tonight’s dinner, and I waved her off.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Though I couldn’t manage without her, just being with Mrs Flanders was exhausting. At lunchtime I put a Closed for Lunch sign in the window and, grabbing Rachel’s umbrella, I hurried down into St Helier to the bank.
She’s off sick, they told me. Sick? She hadn’t looked remotely sick this morning. I’d have to go to her apartment.
Rachel lived on the second floor of a small dilapidated Victorian boarding house near the seafront; faded and peeling, it had communal stairs that always smelt of boiled cabbage.
When she opened the door, I tried to give her the usual kiss to each cheek, but she withdrew. Her eyes were red and wouldn’t meet mine.
‘What is it?’ I asked, ‘What’s going on?’
She held out a letter to me. ‘From my mother’s neighbour. Read it.’
The envelope was addressed to Mrs R Jones. But Rachel wasn’t married, and her name was Cohen. I raised my eyebrows at her. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure it was for me either. But it was my address, and my initial, and the sign on the envelope told me I should open it. Go on, read it.’
I pulled it out and took it to the window where there was more light. Today, though the rain had stopped, the windows were misted up and splattered with gull droppings. There was no address on the top of the letter, and no date. It was in French, but on Jersey, everyone could speak both French and English, or Jèrriais, our own Jersey language from the old Norman. I translated easily:
Mr and Mrs Cohen of 6 Rue Balard, Paris, were ordered to report to the train station yesterday, and by now they will be on their way to a camp for Jews and ‘undesirables’. Given that they are unlikely to return, their house has been requisitioned for use by the Sicherheitspolizei.
Heil Hitler.
At the bottom of the letter was a small symbol that looked like a cat’s face. The same little drawing was on the envelope. ‘What’s this?’ I asked, pointing.
‘That’s how I know it’s from Madame Vichy. It’s their cat, Otto. He’s dead now of course. It was when I was a little girl. I used to feed Otto when they went on holiday, and he always wrote me a thank you note, signed like this, but of course it was Madame Vichy who wrote the notes.’ She swallowed. ‘I haven’t seen a note signed like this for twenty years.’
‘This woman, is she a Nazi sympathiser?’
‘Of course not.’ Rachel sighed. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman, like my mother. She’s not doing it out of malice. She’s my mother’s best friend; they used to gossip over the garden fence and exchange recipes for tarte au citron. I suppose, now France is occupied, Madame Vichy must pretend to toe the line. Not to, might be too risky.’
I stared at the note again. ‘She doesn’t say where they’ve gone. You don’t think it’s just someone making trouble?’
‘No. Look, I trust her. She wouldn’t write me this unless it were true, and I can’t bear to think of it. Of where Maman and Papa are, I mean. I’d heard rumours of this, of the mass transportation of Jewish people out of the cities and into ghettos, but …’ She stopped, picked at the frayed edge of her cardigan.
‘When did you last hear from them?’
‘Maman’s letters kept coming as usual until about six weeks ago. Then they suddenly stopped, and though I’ve been writing, I’ve heard nothing since. I suspected England wouldn’t let the mail through, now France is under German occupation.’
I turned the letter over to look at the postmark. The words ‘unlikely to return’ had sent a chill through me. ‘When was it sent?’
‘That’s just it,’ Rachel said. ‘I don’t know. You can see the censor’s mark, but it came this morning and the rain has blurred everything.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I can’t go there to look for them, can I? I don’t know where they’ve gone, or where to look. How can they do this?’
I put the letter back in the envelope. Her voice had an accusing tone. And suddenly I realised that she meant Fred.
I bridled. ‘It’s not Fred’s fault,’ I said. ‘It’s this stupid war.’
‘His brother’s a Nazi party member though, isn’t he? You told me yourself before the war. Can’t he do anything? Can’t he find out where they’ve gone?’
I saw the desperation in her eyes, but I knew Fred couldn’t get involved, even if I could contact him, which seemed impossible given the circumstances. It was bad enough that England and Germany were at war. How hard he’d worked, to become English, ditching his German name Siegfried, to make himself plain Fred! Now all that was ruined. I sighed. ‘Fred doesn’t want to be involved, not in Nazi politics. He hasn’t lived in Germany since before we were in Vienna.’
‘Not involved?’ She scoffed bitterly. ‘He’s fighting for the Germans, isn’t he?’
‘They forced him. I told you!’
‘But can’t he do something? Write to his brother, pull a few strings?’
‘You know he can’t. Jewish sympathisers are … well, I mean—’
‘Fred won’t help me because I’m a Jew.’ She set her lips in a thin line and went to open the door.
‘Rachel, it’s not Fred’s fault.’
‘He’s a German, isn’t he?’ She almost spat the word at me.