Bea smelled them before she saw them. She had delivered her postal round to Havre des Pas, and was cycling under the shadow of Fort Regent, back into town when the stench hit her. Hot, marshy gusts of something deeply rotten washed over her.
Her sense of smell seemed so acute of late.
“Oh, Jesus!” She pulled over by a granite bollard at the edge of the French Harbour.
“Not a pretty sight, is it.” Dr. McKinstry was standing a few feet away and together they watched the spectacle.
A pathetic, shabby group of prisoners trudged along the side of the quay next to the high barbed-wire fence. Barefoot, despite the freezing February fog and icy winds, feet black and raw, they trudged like walking skeletons.
One of them—he could have been 13 or 30, it was hard to tell—staggered suddenly to the right. The OT guard nearest to him raised his rubber truncheon and brought it crashing down on his head.
Bea cried out loud and buried her face in her hands.
“Where’s your humanity?” Dr. McKinstry shouted at the guard.
“Keep out of it, old man.”
“And this is the superior race?” Dr. McKinstry intoned, his voice as dry as dust.
“Why are the ones at the back wearing striped clothing?” she asked and he shook his head.
“They’ve shipped them over from Sylt and Norderney.”
“Where’s that? Russia?”
He looked down at her, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.
“No, dear girl. They are the names of camps in Alderney, just forty miles from here.”
“Oh.” She was ashamed at her ignorance.
“No reason for you to know. They keep it well hidden. There’re only a few civilians left, so fewer prying eyes. They do as they wish—and believe me they do. That island will reverberate with screams for many years to come.”
“How do you know this?”
“A patient’s son was sent there for six weeks after he refused to step off the curb to make way for a German officer. His mother says the child who has come back is not her son. Here on Jersey they work them like beasts of burden and if they stop for a minute they beat them. But in Alderney, if they stop work…” He trailed off. “Not for your ears.”
Bea swallowed, felt a strange whirring start in her head. Jimmy had been right. The Channel Islands were prisons without walls.
“Where are they sending them now?”
“I should imagine they’re packing them off to Germany in case the Allies invade. They want to hide the evidence of their crimes.”
Bea composed herself, pushing down the acid bile that threatened to spill over.
“Are you busy, doctor?” she asked.
“You cannot imagine. Every other person on this island has scarlet fever, flu or diphtheria. Do yourself a favor, Miss Gold, don’t get ill.”
Her stomach folded. “Doctor, might I ask a question? If a person’s malnourished might it be possible for their monthlies to stop?”
“Yes. But it could also mean they’re with child. Make an appointment to see Dr. Lewis. He’s your doctor, I believe.”
“No, it’s not for me,” she said quickly. “I’m asking for a friend.”
He looked down at her searchingly. “Advise your friend to see a doctor without delay.”
He touched the tip of his hat then strode on.
Bea stared out at the empty ocean beyond the barbed wire. The flat surface of the sea never failed to amaze her. It was like the skin of a mackerel. Sometimes gray, sometimes purple, or pink, but today, as dark as a bruise. If she did this, kept her mind focused on other things, everything would be well.
In the distance, something astonishing happened. A giant silver barrage balloon had broken free from its moorings by the harbor and was sailing out to sea in the direction of England. Her thoughts leapt to Jimmy.
“Why did you have to leave me?” she whispered, holding her tummy. She glanced down at his cheap tin ring on her ring finger. Bea had never felt so achingly alone or so afraid. Her secrets were stacking up like a precariously balanced house of cards.
Bea watched as the barrage balloon faded to a pinprick on the horizon. One day soon, the Allies would come over that same horizon and free them all from this living nightmare. Then she would pass her letters to the British and leave them to hand down justice on the traitors who had denounced their own.
Her secret stash of stolen letters was growing, horrifying and thrilling her in equal measure. If she was honest, she was proud of how good she was getting at it. She’d developed a magician’s sleight of hand. One in the sorting frame, one slipped up the sleeve of her jacket. Most envelopes these days came from recycled tomato-packing paper so were light and easy to conceal.
Barely a day had passed without another piece of poison making its way into the box. After her brush with Nancy, she’d moved them to the allotment for safe keeping. And there, tucked under a carton of weed killer and a manual on how to grow summer fruit, was enough evidence to either get her deported to a Nazi prison, or the senders of the letters arrested for war crimes, or better yet, treason. The question was, what would come first? Liberation or her arrest?
The sickness surged through her again, blooming and unfurling. The air was a ripe stew of smells. The savory stench of diesel and unwashed bodies churned her guts and stirred up her hormones. A few spots of rain began to fall and the wind snapped the swastika at the end of the pier.
“Just keep going,” she told herself, picking up her postal bag and mounting her bike. “Come what may.”
After she’d finished her Saturday round, Bea collected her mum as promised and they headed to the Wartime Book Club.
They had to push their way through the door to the library.
“Blimey,” said Queenie. “It’s heaving in here.”
It had been five weeks since their first meeting and word had spread round the island faster than a fever. Bea had to hand it to Grace. She had tapped into a need most islanders weren’t even aware they had—the simple pleasure of being read to. Half the post office was here. She spied Dr. McKinstry, Albert the physiotherapist, Molly from the flower stall. Extra chairs had been squeezed into the elegant, galleried Reading Room.
The rain drummed on the glass-domed roof, but inside Grace had made it so cozy. Tealights flickered from the corners, keeping the darkness at bay.
“Why do you think it’s so popular?” Bea puzzled as they eased their way through the crowd toward Grace. “Aside from the fact that it’s somewhere dry and moderately warm?”
“It’s free?” Queenie shrugged. “And let’s be honest, it’s the only way most people’ll escape from this island.” She looked stricken. “Oh, darlin’ I’m so sorry, that was tactless of me.”
“Bit late to be apologizing for being tactless, Mum,” Bea said, nudging her with her shoulder.
“Me and my cakehole. It’ll get me into trouble one of these days.”
“You’re not wrong there, Mum. You could talk the leg off an iron pot.”
“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” she flashed back.
“Over here.” Mary La Mottée and Mrs. Noble had saved seats for them near the front.
“Hello, girls. Bea, are you well? You look ever so peaky,” Mary commented.
“Charming,” Bea quipped. “I’ll have you know I was Miss Havre des Pas 1939.”
“Who here’s gonna win any beauty competitions?” Queenie remarked. “We’re all a right shabby show.”
“Ignore Mum. I’m fine, thanks for asking, Mrs. La Mottée. It was a long round this morning and I got a chill.”
Mary picked up her hand and rubbed it between hers. “Why don’t you come to ours for your dinner tomorrow, and you, Queenie.” She lowered her voice. “We’ve got a bit of pork. My husband slaughtered a pig we’ve been keeping on the sly.”
Bea thought of roast pork and crackling and felt her mouth water.
“Mind you, we had a close shave. Germans came knocking last week. They were doing random house searches in the area. We got wind of it and we bundled the pig up, put her in a bonnet and put her into our bed under the covers.”
“You never,” Queenie breathed.
“We did. When the patrol come through, I told them it was my elderly mother, in bed sick with scarlet fever. They couldn’t get out fast enough.”
The group hooted with laughter and Bea relaxed. Being on speaking terms with Mrs. La Mottée was one blessing at least.
Grace cleared her throat.
“I’m impressed at the turnout and in such filthy weather. Today I’m going to read from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. It’s a classic, and I think sometimes, we all need the reassurance of the past.” She smiled as she stroked the cover.
“Despite being written at the time of the Napoleonic wars, Miss Austen very cleverly never mentions war at all. This war has changed the literary landscape and now quiet classics that portray a calmer, more certain age provide solace.” She smiled and gestured to the tealights. “There’s a certain irony that the classics, which were written by candlelight, are once more being read by it.”
“Interesting perspective,” said a voice Bea vaguely recognized. He stood at the entrance to the door, bundled up in a winter coat, hat pulled down low, his voice disguised as English, but there was no doubt it was him.
Grace’s eyes lit up at the sight of him and Bea realized that she had been right in her assertion that her friend had strong feelings for the American. A fact that would have delighted her in peacetime, but now left her worried. It wasn’t just risky. It was downright dangerous, especially as he seemed to have such a cavalier attitude toward risk—not that she was one to judge! She had waited so long for her friend to fall in love, knowing that he would have to be something special, but never guessing that this would be the man to claim her friend’s heart.
Grace and Red exchanged a secret smile and she began to read, her voice strong and soothing and Bea had to admit, despite her fears, it was like having honey poured into her ear. Fading light filtered through the domed glass panels over her head, casting Grace in an ethereal glow. The Wartime Book Club had captured the hearts and minds of Jersey folk, desperate to escape. Grace was taking her patrons to rhododendron-splashed valleys, sunlit Hampshire drawing rooms and misty Cornish bays. There was no barbed wire or hunger in these books.
In its own way, it was bibliotherapy. Bea cast her eye over this little huddle of souls suffering from all the fury of the war, hunkered in the top of this ancient library. If books were medicine, then Grace was the medic.
Bea heard the soft tread of footsteps behind them and glanced back. Her gaze turned to the top of the staircase. Louisa Gould tiptoed her way in, whispering apologies for her lateness. Behind her was a young, dark-haired man in a suit and Bea nearly fell off her chair.
“She’s taking a bloody risk, bringing him into town,” Queenie muttered darkly.
Forty-five minutes later, Grace put the book down on her lap.
“That’s all for now, but please do all stay for tea. I wish I could offer you biscuits, but alas, my rations do not permit. I can leave you with this, though, my favorite quote from Pride and Prejudice: ‘I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’”
“And we should be miserable were it not for Grace and her excellent library,” Queenie called out. “Three cheers for Grace.”
The library was filled with applause and Grace blushed modestly.
When the crowd around Grace dispersed, Bea weaved her way over.
“That seemed to go well, it’s proving terrifically popular,” Grace said.
“I’m proud of you, Grace,” Bea said quietly. “This is exactly what people need right now.”
“Are you well?” Grace puzzled, holding her hand to Bea’s forehead. “You don’t look good. You must’ve got soaked on your round earlier.”
“No, us posties are made of tough stuff. Occupation collywobbles most likely,” she said, referring to the gripey tummy many islanders now suffered with, due to excessive consumption of vegetables!
Louisa Gould appeared by their side, clutching a box.
“Grace and Bea, have you met my nephew, Bill?”
A loaded silence fell round the group.
“No, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” Grace said, holding out her hand.
Bill said nothing, wisely, just smiled at the group and shook their hands.
“I’ve been going through Edward’s things, and I’ve dug out a lot of his old books,” Louisa remarked. “Always had his nose stuck in one. Anyway, I should like you to have them, Grace my love. I think…” Her voice caught. “I think he would have approved of my donating them to the library.”
Grace opened the box. Unimaginable riches: The Three Musketeers. Wuthering Heights. The Happy Return.
“Have a look underneath,” Louisa urged. “All his favorite books as a child.”
“Oh, Lou Swallows and Amazons, Robinson Crusoe, Moonfleet, Dickon among the Indians.”
“Say, Swallows and Amazons,” Bea exclaimed. “You’ll laugh, Mrs. Gould, but Grace and I used to pretend Jersey was Wild Cat Island. The scrapes we got into. Or rather, I got Grace into.”
“How innocent and precious our childhoods seem now,” Louisa replied.
“Precisely why I can’t accept these, Lou,” Grace insisted. “This is your son’s childhood in a box.”
“You can and you will,” Louisa stated flatly. “They’ll bring so much pleasure to other children. Reading these is what gave my Edward such a taste for adventure.”
“But don’t you want them to remember him by?” Bea asked.
“The best way to honor my son is by actions not words,” Louisa said pointedly, smiling at the young man by her side.
“Edward was a moral man, it’s what made him sign up to fight in the first place. I think he’d approve of what I’m doing.”
Bea wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the books, or providing sanctuary to the runaway slave.
“Very well then, Lou,” Grace said. “St. Helier Public Library is very grateful for such a generous donation.”
“I’m glad they’re going to a good home,” said Louisa. “Talking of which, we’d best get going if we’re to make our bus.”
She clutched both of Grace’s hands in hers. “Before I go, I want you know that coming here, listening to you reading, it takes the sharp edge off my grief.”
Bea and Grace watched Louisa Gould and her young friend leave. Bea felt so choked at the widow’s generosity and courage.
“That’s a brave woman,” Red murmured.
Dr. McKinstry appeared at their side. “I was waiting for Louisa to leave. There’s a matter of some urgency to discuss. But first…” He turned to Red.
“Sir, I cannot help you if you refuse to help yourself. You’re taking an enormous risk being here, not just to yourself but to Grace. The censor is downstairs checking people’s papers.”
Red looked chastened. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to cause offense, only I’m going stir crazy cooped up in that shed.”
“Just as well I’ve located a new safehouse for you then, on the north of the island. I’ll take you there in one hour. Meet me at La Vaux Sanatorium.”
His face darkened as he glared at the group. “No more unnecessary risks.” His Irish accent, usually so soft was cutting.
“Leave now and for God’s sake, man, just show them your papers and keep your trap shut.”
Red left and Grace looked crestfallen.
“Grace and Bea,” the doctor went on, lowering his voice, “you are playing with fire.”
Bea had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what the good doctor had to say. “I have intelligence, from someone close to Heinz Carl Wölfle of the Geheime Feldpolizei. He thinks there’s a Resistance cell operating within the library and the post office and that the book club is involved somehow. He’s trying to make connections between all three.”
Grace’s face emptied of color.
“Why can’t he just leave us alone? I told him when he came in that I am just a librarian. Resistance cells? What kind of nonsense! This is Jersey, not France.”
Bea felt the blood in her veins run cold.
“Why does he think that?”
“He thinks informers’ letters are being intercepted at the post office and that somehow the library is involved is passing on information.”
“Bea and I are not doing anything to attract the attention of the Wolf,” Grace said. “We just want to live quietly now and get on with our jobs, don’t we, Bea?”
The doctor scrutinized her.
“I’m not passing on warnings any longer,” Bea whispered.
It wasn’t a lie exactly; an omission of the full facts perhaps. I’m not passing on warnings any longer, because I’m stealing informers’ letters instead and hiding them in my Mum’s shed. Like I stole the Germans’ mail.
The air in the library seemed to thrum with intensity, as if all her secrets had leapt up and were chuckling and rustling through the stacks.
Dr. McKinstry breathed out deeply. “That’s all right then. Because the Wolf has a spy on the payroll, someone who has been sending fake letters to him. He says not one has reached him at Silvertide.”
Bea felt her lungs empty.
“Bea,” Grace said slowly, watching her carefully. “Havre des Pas is your round, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “It doesn’t mean a thing. That man’s got bats in his belfry, sending letters to himself. Honestly, he’s barking mad.”
“Yes, that might well be true,” the doctor agreed. “But he’s dangerous. He won’t stop at anything and for some reason, he has his sights on you both.”
“He’s a sneaky rat.” Bea seethed.
“He is,” he agreed. “And rats are masters of survival.”
Wearily they all stood.
“I have to close the library now,” Grace said. “Thank you, doctor. And, please, don’t be too cross with our American friend. He’s frustrated being cooped up instead of out there with his unit.”
“He’ll be a lot more cooped up if he’s not careful,” he replied. “Good day to you both.”
Bea tried to leave too but Grace pulled her back.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.
Bea longed to fold herself away in Grace’s arms. Instead she shook her head.
“Grace, this isn’t a plot in one of your novels. My life is far more mundane. I’m fine.”
“I’m always here for you, you know that.” Grace’s gentle green eyes were entreating her to open up. “I know I can’t ever replace Jimmy, but I can love you enough for the both of us.”
Bea grabbed her hand, squeezed it tight.
“I know that, Gracie.”
She left quickly so Grace wouldn’t see the hot tears gathering behind her eyes, or hear the scream of panic that threatened to burst out of her.
Thrusting her papers under the nose of the censor, she got on her bike and pedaled out of town. She didn’t even stop to think where she was going. She just needed to put distance between her and Germans. One thought drummed repeatedly through her mind. Some of the letters she had hidden were fakes, sent by the Wolf. She had played straight into his hands!
Skirting St. Aubin’s Bay, she cycled on to St. Brelade’s Bay. Fields and beaches scarred with ugly fortifications flashed past. Scrawls of black cloud dirtied the sky and a rattling wind sent dry leaves spiraling into the air.
Finally, exhausted, she stopped at the cliff overlooking Devil’s Hole, the path down sealed off by barbed wire. This was the place where Jimmy’s and her new life was supposed to have begun. The fact that she would never see him again, ever, was impossible to comprehend.
She closed her eyes, imagined the two of them before the war, dancing under a red summer moon at Billy’s Lido. She in her best green summer frock, he all done up “like a swell”—two young people in love, whose only concern had been where to swim or dance.
Her eyes snapped open. The weather was turning wild. The wind roared. Needle-sharp hailstones hammered her face.
“Oh, Jimmy,” she moaned, “if you can hear me, I’m in a terrible fix.”
She stared out at the black ocean. The waves swirled and boiled before exploding onto the rocks in a crash of white foam.
“I’m scared, Jimmy,” she whispered. The wind snatched her words away.
The future stretched out like a vast unbearable void.