Four weeks on Grace was still reeling from the savagery of her losses. Nature was her consolation. It was a Monday morning at the end of May and spring had merged into bright, sun-sharp days. In the fields the corn turned brown to butter-blonde. Thick clumps of purple heather and yellow gorse glowed in the sunshine, the air filled with its coconut scent. Grace savored its tang in her mouth as she pedaled to and from the library each day.
Most people were more concerned with what was happening in their home than the passing of the seasons. Mealtimes were what her mother had dubbed “SOS”—soup or spuds. Nothing of any flavor passed their lips these days. But nothing had scoured Grace more than Red’s arrest and the closure of their book club. Their absence over the past month had felt like the removal of a limb.
When it came to the club, it wasn’t so much the books themselves, as book issues were at a record high. It was the feeling of companionship, the collective act of reading, which had made them all feel as if their suffering were a shared endeavor. The sense that somehow, their literary gatherings were protecting them from the occupation. Nestled in the sanctuary of the library, words flowing over and around them, had kept real life at bay.
Every week without fail Grace had secretly managed to visit Peter in hospital, thanks to Sister Morgan. If it hadn’t been for those precious encounters, she would have doubted he were alive at all. It was if he’d been swallowed into a vacuum of darkness. Without his continual, calm presence it felt like the library was missing a precious book.
Sighing, she pulled the Evening Post from the newspaper rack and turned to the section which reported sessions at the Royal Court. It was the usual fare. A farmer fined £30 for having an unregistered pig. A four-and-a-half month prison sentence for Winifred Green who worked at the Royal Hotel in Guernsey, where the chef was an ardent Nazi and to his frequent “Heil Hitler,” she had replied, “Heil Churchill.”
But nothing on Peter.
Red’s arrest had been a far splashier affair. The Nazi authorities had gone to town on that, ensuring that most of the front page of the Evening Post had been dedicated to the capture of “a most dangerous enemy of the Third Reich.” Fortunately they were no closer to working out who had offered him sanctuary, but the warning to islanders was implicit. Grace hadn’t even bothered to read the article. It was nothing more than bragging propaganda. But the photo they’d used of him had nearly toppled her. Red in irons being taken to the prisoner-of-war camp in St. Helier. She couldn’t make out his face in the grainy photo but his broad shoulders stayed strong, his back unbowed. God, she loved him. There wasn’t a moment when she didn’t find herself thinking back to their last tender kiss in the woods. Just knowing he was near was some comfort until she remembered the Wolf’s threats.
I should so love for you to experience the camps of the Great Fatherland.
Everything she held dear was slipping away from her, everything she touched turned sour. She sensed Miss Piquet watching her and realized she was standing in a trance by the newspaper rack. Grace swallowed. Pull yourself together. You aren’t the first woman in this war to have a loved one behind barbed wire.
She busied herself with tidying the newspapers. In peacetime they’d stocked 11 English dailies, plus 80 periodicals and magazines. Now The Times and Daily Mail had been replaced with Die Wehrmacht and Signal magazine.
The sight of Nazi propaganda in her library, a space that has always been the last bastion of democracy, was more than she could stand. On impulse she tossed Signal magazine onto the floor. It skidded across the parquet, landing at a pair of well-polished brogues.
“You better not let the authorities see you doing that.”
“I’m so sorry,” Grace gushed to the unfamiliar gentleman standing in front of her.
“Quite all right,” he said, amusement twitching at his lips. “I confess, I feel like doing the same myself.” He held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Hanna. I’m a representative of the Red Cross.”
“Good morning. How may I help?” she asked.
“I’m acting as an intermediary between the Germans and the American prisoners of war, housed at South Hill, St. Helier.”
“Oh.” She faltered, feeling as if a tiny bird was trapped in her chest.
“I’ve persuaded the occupying authorities that some form of entertainment and diversion should be provided for the prisoners. There’s a variety concert this afternoon in the gymnasium in the compound. One of Jersey’s postal workers, Eric Hassell, has agreed to sing.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” said Grace, confused, “but please don’t ask me to perform. I’m a lousy singer.”
“No, don’t worry,” Dr. Hanna chuckled. “I wondered if you could spare some books? One of our prisoners has requested a prisoner-of-war library.” He smiled wryly. “He’s terribly well read. Never has the Geneva Convention been quoted quite so much.”
Grace felt a glow emanate from somewhere deep within. It was him. It had to be.
“But of course. I’d be happy to provide some. As a matter of fact, I’ve a large number of books donated to the library, which I haven’t had a chance to catalog yet—at least a hundred. I’d be happy to donate those? I can’t see my patrons objecting to offering these books to our American friends.”
“Marvelous. They’d all be so grateful. In fact…” He looked about and lowered his voice. “The prisoner who has volunteered to run the library has requested a brief meeting with you to ask your advice. Is that something you’d feel comfortable with?”
“Of course. I’d be happy to offer him some insight.”
“Naturally it’s nothing like on this scale, but run properly a prisoner-of-war library has been proven to be a great morale boost. Might you be free now?”
“Now?”
“Between you and me, Miss La Mottée, if we take this through the official channels, it will get snarled up in red tape. If you slip in while the concert’s on, we should be able to give you five minutes in the prison library to… er, deliver a few books and a little morale. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He spoke slowly, emphasizing the word morale.
Grace smiled knowingly. It seemed the Red Effect worked even on gentlemen.
“Give me five minutes to gather some books.”
“Certainly. I’ll meet you out at the front of the library.”
“Miss P, can you hold the fort for an hour?” she called. “Just a little errand to run.”
Grace’s heart was galloping as she ran to her office and piled up her books in a box. She hardly dared allow herself to believe that she might actually see Red.
Perhaps it was the sense of hope which kindled a little mischief, but on impulse she ran up the stairs to the Reading Room, withdrew the key to the secret cupboard and pulled out The Call of the Wild. Taking care to tuck it under her blouse, she secured in her waistband and ran outside to join the doctor.
Dr. Hanna insisted on carrying the box, as they walked the short distance to the prison compound.
They walked past the old French Harbour and a sign pointed up a steep hill to MILITAR ARREST-ANSTALT. Seeing this caused a flood of adrenaline to pump through her. She was about to smuggle a verboten book into a German prison to her American sweetheart. This war had changed her in ways Grace suspected she wasn’t even yet aware of. A few years ago, she had been such a timid, compliant thing. She hadn’t even dared return a book a day late from her own library.
“Here we are. Put this on,” Dr. Hanna said briskly, giving her a Red Cross armband and handing her the box of books.
Inside the compound Grace looked about. The camp was laid out in a rectangle about 150 feet long, at the top of the hill overlooking the harbor. The doctor led her to the gymnasium at the far end of the compound.
“There’s a small annex at the back of the gymnasium that’s been earmarked for use as the library. I’ve some other matters to tend to. You have five minutes to arrange your books before I return.”
He smiled and touched her softly on the shoulder. “Relax.”
Then he was gone. Grace’s heart thumped as she looked around the compound. It was deserted. Most people, warders included, were crowded in the gymnasium for the concert. The sounds of applause and cheers drifted out.
Grace slipped into the room, using her shoulder to bump open the door. The room was cold and empty, save for some makeshift shelves knocked together and nailed to a wall and a small table in the middle of the room. The disappointment was profound. She must have got the wrong end of the stick. She was supposed to just deliver books and leave.
Grace placed the books on the table.
Behind her the door clicked and she froze. The scent of tobacco and boot polish filled the room. A hand touched her shoulder and turned her around slowly.
She had forgotten how tall he was, how much his presence filled the room, like the sun muscling out from behind a cloud.
“Red,” she wept, feeling her heart smash against her ribs.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her greedily and all Grace felt was a scalding relief. Tears slid down her cheeks as he lifted her off her feet and hugged her so tightly she swore she could feel his heartbeat against her own.
“Oh, Grace, you don’t know how good it is to see you.”
Gently he placed her down and held her face in his hands.
“Let me look at you.” The sounds of music drifted in from the concert next door.
You smile, and the Angels sing.
“Apt,” he murmured, tracing the outline of her lips with his finger.
“Thank you for coming. This is going to sound terribly corny, Grace,” he sighed, “but I’ve seen stars and sunsets that’d make you believe in God, the Alps by moonlight… But nothing, I swear, is as beautiful as the sight of you walking across that yard carrying books.”
He kissed her once more.
“You are my reward for staying alive, Grace.”
“Red, I’m so sorry—” she blurted.
“What the hell for?”
“I feel like I’m to blame for your capture. Like somehow I encouraged you to follow me into town that day.”
“I’m a big boy, Grace. I make my own decisions.” He grinned and a flash of the old irreverent Red was back. “Besides. It was worth it to see you one last time.”
“But you’re a prisoner of war. It must be awful being cooped up in here.”
“It’s boring and demoralizing, to say nothing of a blow to the ego. But at least I’ve got the library to focus on until…”
He trailed off when he saw the books.
“Grace, these’ll go down a storm with the fellas. Reading staves off the boredom.” He laughed at a sudden memory.
“Our colonel has a nightly session of storytelling, reading out loud from Shakespeare, with each of us taking a part. The guards think we’re crazy!”
“There’s one more,” she said, slipping The Call of the Wild out from her waistband.
“You remembered!”
“Of course. But please keep it hidden.”
He crossed his heart. “On my life.”
For a moment they simply stood facing one another and Grace wished she could bottle this perfect moment and keep it forever.
“Grace, there is so much to say and I’m aware we’re running out of time. Dr. Hanna’ll be back in a moment and I can’t abuse his kindness.”
His gaze flickered out of the grimy window, beyond the barbed wire around the prison compound.
“To know that you love me makes any amount of suffering worthwhile.”
“And you really think that you and I have a future together after the war?” Grace asked. “That we can live peacefully with our books, grow old together?”
She laughed at the notion. “Lose our reading glasses and bicker over who feeds the cat?”
“I really do, Grace. But it will be dogs, not cats.”
“Two cats, two dogs,” Grace asserted.
“Whatever you want, Grace.”
“But where will we live?”
“I don’t know, Angel, but somewhere there has to be place for us. There’s so much out there to see. I want to take you to London. To see the traveling library.”
Hope kindled. “And the Whispering Gallery? Oh, and I’d love to visit the London Library. In fact, all the great libraries of Europe.”
Red laughed at her enthusiasm. “Sure. Hell why not? Let’s visit all the libraries in the world.”
He hesitated.
“And Boston Library? Maybe one day, you might consider coming home with me, as my wife.”
“Oh, Red.” She leaned her forehead against his.
“I’ve finally met someone who I’m not afraid to die for,” he said into the warmth of the space between them. “You and me, Angel Grace, it’s meant to be. Will you marry me?”
He pulled back, scanned her face.
“I know I’m no catch right now. I’m a goddamn prisoner of war, but one day I’ll offer you the world, I promise.”
“Let’s concentrate on surviving this war and if we do,” she looked up at him, feeling like she’d swallowed the sun, “then of course I’ll marry you.”
Grace closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. Did she even dare allow herself to indulge and share in a dream that big?
A soft knock at the door reluctantly dragged her back to her senses.
“Time to go,” Red said.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, tracing her fingers along his jawline, over the faint dimple in his chin, trying to commit every detail of his face to her memory, before turning.
Grace reached the door. His voice pulled her back.
“One last thing,” He pulled off his prison cap and revealed a shock of tufty red hair. He wrinkled his nose as he mussed his hair, his green eyes all the more vivid. “No hair dye in prison. This is me. The real me.”
She half-sobbed, half-laughed. “I still love you. Cheer up, Yank. Won’t be long.”
As Grace strode out across the yard, her heart was full.
Back in the library she was surprised to find the book club assembled around her desk. Molly, Mr. Warder, Mrs. Moisan, Bea, Queenie, Mrs. Noble, Louisa Gould, Albert Bedane and many more.
“Hallo, everyone. Have I missed something?”
“We had an idea, Grace ducks,” Queenie said. “We know we can’t gather in here as a book club no more, but what’s to stop us meeting outside?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We know how worried you are about Peter,” Bea chipped in. “We thought we could maybe stand on the street outside the prison, read in solidarity and support.”
“He might not see us,” said Louisa. “But if he can, then he’ll know the book club is waiting for him. That’s got to lift his spirits surely?”
“I love it,” Grace said. “But wait—we’re not allowed to assemble in groups of more than five.”
“We thought of that, Grace,” said Mr. Warder. “We split up into groups of three and stand apart. What do you think?”
“I think I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such wonderful friends,” she said, her voice catching in her throat as her eyes filled with tears.
Queenie pulled out her hankie.
“Doing something, no matter how small, is better than doing nothing at all,” she said and the group nodded their agreement. “The only thing I used to read was my ration book. Now I’m a regular bookworm.”
She swayed a little and Grace grabbed her arm. Queenie seemed to have shrunk over the past month and didn’t look at all well.
“Don’t fuss,” Queenie whispered.
“You’re right,” Grace said, releasing her grip on Queenie. “We might not be a proper reading club anymore, but we can be a literary support group.”
Grace gathered some of Peter’s favorite books, and leaving poor Miss Piquet to hold the fort once more, they made their way to the town’s prison. The pavement on the street outside the prison was narrow, but there was so little traffic these days they easily found three separate spots to gather in.
Discreetly the groups huddled in their small circles and took it in turns to read excerpts. They drew curious looks as they read out their favorite passages, but Grace didn’t care. Falling down a rabbit hole, being swallowed by a whale, galloping through a frosty night on the back of a black horse was mind-expanding joy. How she hoped that somehow, in some way, Peter could feel the strength of her love. Or better yet, was looking down from those dark and mournful windows above. She willed the words off the page and up, up and in through the bars of the windows.
They stayed for 40 minutes before the group dispersed, back to work or the drudgery of keeping a home in wartime.
Back in the library, Bea handed Grace a letter.
“Read it.”
The widow Louisa Gould. La Fontaine. Harboring a Russian POW and flaunting him at the library. Search and you shall find.
Grace closed her eyes.
“I thought you’d stopped.”
“I had. I have,” she stumbled. “I promise. I just delivered some mail to Victoria College this morning and the vice principle, Pat Tatam, called me in. This was delivered to him by mistake instead of the Commandant at Victoria College House.”
“He opened it?” Grace asked.
“Told me the seal had come loose. Left me alone in his office and then told me to redirect it. But never mind how it came to be opened. The most important question is, what do we do?”
Grace closed her eyes, felt her heartbeat drumming as she turned over the consequences. The library had been named in the letter. The Wolf wouldn’t need any more evidence than that to shut down the library and arrest them all.
“Mr. Mourant is watching me like a hawk,” Bea persisted. “I’ve only got until Friday then I’m leaving. I can’t leave without making sure Lou’s safe.”
“You’re leaving the post office?” Grace exclaimed. “What? Why? You never told me.”
“I’ve had enough of all them early starts. Mum’s got a friend up in Trinity who’s sick and needs some help with her farm.”
Bea shifted her post bag over her tummy.
Grace stared at Bea and knew without a shadow of doubt her friend was hiding something from her.
“But the point is, Grace, none of that’s important right now.” Bea drummed an impatient finger on the letter. “This piece of poison needs dealing with and fast. I’ll have to post this letter to the commandant this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest. It’s already been date-stamped which means if I hold it back any longer it’ll raise suspicion.”
She looked at Grace, wide-eyed with fear, and already Grace knew where this was leading.
“Lou needs telling today. The Wolf will turn her house over the minute this lands on his desk.”
Grace felt Bea’s hand on her arm. “Please, Grace, you can tell her on your way home tonight. I can’t make it to St. Ouen’s and back without raising suspicion.”
Grace let out a sigh that seemed to wrap itself around the library. “Very well. But only if you tell me why you’re really leaving the post office, because I don’t buy all this nonsense about helping out your mum’s friend. Your mum is sick. She needs you at home.”
Bea stared at the floor. “I know. Look, I’ll tell you everything. I promise. But not now. First, let’s deal with this.”
“Very well. I’ll go now.”
Bea threw her arms around her and hugged her tightly. Grace felt a tremor run through her friend’s body.
“Bea, you’re shaking,” she whispered, drawing back. “Please tell me you’re all right.”
“I will be. In time. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”
“You’re scaring me, Bea”
But her friend had already left, the heavy library door banging shut behind her.
Outside, Grace pulled on her raincoat and called out to Miss Piquet.
“I’m so sorry to do this to you again, Miss P. But I’ve something of a family emergency at home. I swear you’ve earned yourself a place in library heaven.”
“Go on with you,” Miss Piquet said, rolling her eyes. “Library heaven indeed!”
Half an hour later, Grace and Dr. McKinstry were heading west, bumping along the island roads in his old bone-shaker. Thank god, as a medic, he was still allowed a vehicle, and was still in his surgery when she called.
“I’ve arranged another safehouse for Bill,” he said. “He’ll need to leave tonight.” The doctor frowned. “She won’t like it one bit. She’s come to look upon that young man as something of a substitute son, but we must impress the danger of this situation upon Mrs. Gould.”
They pulled to a stop outside the small whitewashed country shop, surrounded by green rolling pastures. It could have been one of a thousand such stores run by middle-aged matrons in Britain’s sleepy countryside villages. Women like Louisa were the everyday heroines of this war, stalwarts who knew every single one of their customers by name and were rooted in the communities they served.
“Who could do such a despicable thing to Lou?” Grace murmured, as he turned off the ignition. Over the road, curtains twitched at the home of two old maids, the Vibert sisters.
Dr. McKinstry shrugged as they sat in the silence of the motor car, listening as the engine ticked and cooled.
“And why?”
“Jealousy. Hunger. A chance to settle old scores?”
“What separates Louisa from the people who write these letters?”
“A refusal to believe her own hardship is more important than others,” he replied wearily, taking out his keys. “Come on. Let’s do this.”