The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Someone gasped, “Piss! He said piss in front of ladies!”

“Make him apologize!” cried another.

“He doesn’t have to apologize. He’s supposed to say what he thinks, and that’s what he thinks. Like it or not!”

“Woodrow, how could you so hurt your friend?”

“For shame, Woodrow!”

The room fell quiet when Woodrow stood up. The two men met in the middle of the floor. Jonas held out his hand to Woodrow, and Woodrow clapped Jonas on the back, and the two of them left, arm in arm, for Crazy Ida’s. I hope that’s a pub and not a woman.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. Dawsey was the only Society member who seemed to find last night’s meeting at all funny. He’s too polite to laugh out loud, but I saw his shoulders shaking. I gathered from the others that it had been a satisfying but by no means extraordinary evening.

Love again,

Juliet

From Juliet to Sidney

31st May, 1946

Dear Sidney,

Please read the enclosed letter—I found it slipped under my door this morning.

Dear Miss Ashton,

Miss Pribby told me you wanted to know about our recent Occupation by the German Army—so here is my letter.

I am a small man, and though Mother says I never had a prime, I did. I just didn’t tell her about it. I am a champion whistler. I have won contests and prizes for my whistling. During the Occupation, I used this talent to unman the enemy.

After Mother was asleep, I would creep out of the house. I’d make my silent way down to the Germans’ brothel (if you’ll pardon the term) on Saumarez Street. I’d hide in the shadows until a soldier emerged from his tryst. I do not know if ladies are aware of this, but men are not at their peak of fitness after such an occasion. The soldier would start walking back to his quarters, often whistling. I’d start slowly walking, whistling the same tune (but much better). He’d stop whistling, but I would not stop whistling. He’d pause a second, thinking that what he had taken for an echo was actually another person in the dark—following him. But who? He would look back, I’d have slipped into a doorway. He’d see no one—he’d start on his way again, but not whistling. I’d start to walk again and to whistle again. He’d stop—I’d stop. He’d hurry on, but I’d still whistle, following him with hard footsteps. The soldier would rush toward his quarters, and I’d return to the brothel to wait for another German to stalk. I do believe I made many a soldier unfit to perform his duties well the next day. Do you see?

Now, if you’ll pardon me, I will speak more about brothels. I do not believe those young ladies were there because they wanted to be. They were sent from the Occupied territories of Europe, same as the Todt slave workers. It could not have been nice work. To the soldiers’ credit, they demanded the German authorities give the women an extra food allowance, same as given to the island’s heavy workers. Furthermore, I saw some of these same ladies share their food with the Todt workers, who were sometimes let out of their camps at night to hunt for food.

My mother’s sister lives on Jersey. Now that the war is over, she can come visit us—more’s the pity. Being the sort of woman she is, she told a nasty story.

After D-Day the Germans decided to send their brothel ladies back to France, so they put them all on a boat to St. Malo. Now those waters are very wayward, broiled-up, and ugly. Their boat was swept onto the rocks and all aboard were drowned. You could see those poor drowned women—their yellow hair (bleached hussies, my aunt called them) spread out in the water, washing against the rocks. “Served them right, the whores,” my aunt said— she and my mother laughed.

It was not to be borne! I jumped up from my chair and knocked the tea table over on them deliberately. I called them dirty old bats.

My aunt says she will never set foot in our house again, and Mother hasn’t spoken to me since that day. I find it all very peaceful.

Yours truly,

Henry A. Toussant

From Juliet to Sidney

6th June, 1946

Mr. Sidney Stark

Stephens & Stark Ltd.

21 St. James’s Place

London S.W.1

Dear Sidney,

I could hardly believe it was you, telephoning from London last night! How wise of you not to tell me you were flying home; you know how planes terrify me—even when they aren’t dropping bombs. Wonderful to know you are no longer five oceans away, but only across the Channel. Will you come to see us as soon as you can?

Isola is better than a stalking horse. She has brought seven people over to tell me their Occupation stories— and I have a growing packet of interview notes. But for now, notes are all they are. I don’t know yet if a book is possible—or, if possible, what form it should take.