The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

inundated with mail in the next weeks.

Isola also went to see Mr. Dilwyn at the bank this afternoon and asked him to offer you the rental of Elizabeth’s cottage for your visit. It is a lovely site, in a meadow below the Big House, and it is small enough for you to manage easily. Elizabeth moved there when the German officers confiscated the larger house for their use. You would be very comfortable there, and Isola assured Mr. Dilwyn that he need only stir himself to draw up a lease for you. She herself will tend to everything else: airing out rooms, washing windows, beating rugs, and killing spiders.

I hope you won’t feel burdened by all these arrangements, as Mr. Dilwyn had planned to assess the property soon for its rental possibilities. Sir Ambrose’s solicitors have begun an inquiry into Elizabeth’s whereabouts. They have found there is no record of her arrival in Germany, only that she was put on a transport in France, with Frankfurt as the intended destination of the train.

There will be further investigations, and I pray that they will lead to Elizabeth, but in the meantime, Mr. Dilwyn wants to rent the property left to Elizabeth by Sir Ambrose, to provide income for Kit.

I sometimes think that we are morally obliged to begin a search for Kit’s German relations, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Christian was a rare soul, and he detested what his country was doing, but the same cannot be true for many Germans, who believed in the dream of the Thousand-Year Reich. And how could we send our Kit away to a foreign—and destroyed—land, even if her relations could be found? We are the only family she’s ever known.

When Kit was born, Elizabeth kept her paternity a secret from the authorities. Not out of shame, but because she was afraid that the baby would be taken from her and sent to Germany to be raised. There were dreadful rumors of such things. I wonder if Kit’s heritage could have saved Elizabeth if she had made it known when she was arrested. But as she didn’t, it is not my place to do so.

Excuse my unburdening myself. My worries travel about my head on their well-worn path, and it is a relief to put them on paper. I will turn to more cheerful subjects—such as last evening’s meeting of the Society.

After the uproar about your visit had subsided, the Society read your article about books and reading in the Times. Everyone enjoyed it—not just because we were reading about ourselves, but because you brought us views we’d never thought to apply to our reading before. Dr. Stubbins pronounced that you alone had transformed “distraction” into an honorable word—instead of a character flaw. The article was delightful, and we were all so proud and pleased to be mentioned in it.

Will Thisbee wants to have a welcome party in your honor. He will bake a Potato Peel Pie for the event and has devised a cocoa icing for it. He made a surprise dessert for our meeting last night—Cherries Flambe, which fortunately burned down to the pan, so we did not have to eat it. I wish Will would leave cookery alone and go back to ironmongery.

We all look forward to welcoming you. You mentioned that you have to finish several reviews before you can leave London—but we will be delighted to see you whenever you come. Just let us know the date and time of your arrival. Certainly, an aeroplane flight to Guernsey would be faster and more comfortable than the mail boat (Clovis Fossey said to tell you that air hostesses give gin to passengers—and the mail boat doesn’t). But unless you are bedeviled by sea-sickness, I would catch the afternoon boat from Weymouth. There is no more beautiful approach to Guernsey than the one by sea—either with the sun going down, or with gold-tipped, black storm clouds, or the Island just emerging through the mist. This is the way I first saw Guernsey, as a new bride.

Fondly,

Amelia

From Isola to Juliet

14th May, 1946

Dear Juliet,

I have been getting your house all ready for you. I asked several of my friends at Market to write to you of their experiences, so I hope they do. If Mr. Tatum writes and asks for money for his recollections, don’t pay him a penny. He is a big fat liar.

Would you like to know of my first sight of the Germans? I will use adjectives to make it more lively. I don’t usually—I favor stark facts.

Guernsey seemed quiet that Tuesday—but we knew they were there! Planes and ships carrying soldiers had come in the day before. Huge Junkers thumped down, and after unloading all their men, they flew off again. Being lighter now and more frolicsome, they hedgehopped, swooping up and swooping down, all over Guernsey, scaring the cows in the fields.

Elizabeth was at my house, but we couldn’t summon up the spirit to make hair tonic, even though my yarrow was in. We just drifted around like a couple of ghouls. Then Elizabeth gathered herself up. “Come on,” she says. “I’m not going to sit inside waiting for them. I’m going to town to seek out my enemy.”

“And what are you going to do after you’ve found him?” I asks, sort of snappish.

“I’m going to look at him,” she says. “We’re not animals in a cage—they are. They’re stuck on this island with us, same as we’re stuck with them. Come on, let’s go stare.”

I liked that idea, so we put on our hats and went. But you would never believe the sights we saw in St. Peter Port.

Oh, there were hundreds of German soldiers—and they were SHOPPING! Arm in arm they went strolling along Fountain Street—smiling, laughing, peering into store windows, going in shops and coming out with their arms filled with packages, calling out to one another. North Esplanade was filled with soldiers too. Some were just lolling about, others touched their caps to us and bowed, polite-like. One man said to me, “Your island is beautiful. We will be fighting in London soon, but now we have this—a holiday in the sun.”

Another poor idiot actually thought he was in Brighton. They were buying ice lollies for the streams of children following them. Laughing and having a fine time they were. If it weren’t for those green uniforms, we’d have thought the tour boat from Weymouth was in!

We started to go by Candie Gardens, and there everything changed—carnival to nightmare. First, we heard noise—the loud steady rhythm of boots coming down heavy on hard stones.

Then a troop of goose-stepping soldiers turned onto our street; everything about them gleamed; buttons, boots, those metal coal-scuttle hats. Their eyes didn’t look at anyone or anything—just stared straight ahead. That was scarier than the rifles slung over their shoulders, or the knives and grenades stuck in their boot-tops.

Mr. Ferre, who’d been in back of us, grabbed my arm. He’d fought on the Somme. Tears were running down his