She will not tell you how sick she has been, but I will. In the few days before the Russians arrived at Ravensbruck, those filthy Nazis ordered anyone who could walk to leave. Opened the gates and turned them loose upon the devastated countryside. “Go,” they ordered. “Go—find any Allied troops that you can.”
They left those exhausted, starving women to walk miles and miles without any food or water. There were not even any gleanings left in the fields they walked past. Was it any wonder their walk became a death march? Hundreds of the women died on the road.
After several days, Remy’s legs and body were so swollen with famine edema, she could not continue to walk. So she just laid herself down in the road to die. Fortunately, a company of American soldiers found her. They tried to give her something to eat, but her body would not receive it. They carried her to a field hospital, where she was given a bed and quarts of water were drained from her body. After many months in hospital, she was well enough to be sent to this hospice in Louviers. I will tell you she weighed less than sixty pounds when she arrived here.
Otherwise, she would have written you sooner. It is my belief that she will get her strength back properly once she has written this letter and she can set about laying her friend to rest. You may, of course, write to her, but please do not ask her questions about Ravensbruck. It will be best for her to forget.
Yours truly,
Sister Cecile Touvier
From Amelia to Remy Giraud
16th June, 1946
Mlle. Remy Giraud
Hospice La Foret
Louviers
France
Dear Mlle. Giraud,
How good you were to write to us—how good and how kind. It could not have been an easy task to call up your own terrible memories in order to tell us of Elizabeth’s death. We had been praying that she would return to us, but it is better to know the truth than to live in uncertainty. We were grateful to learn of your friendship with Elizabeth and to think of the comfort you gave to one another.
May Dawsey Adams and I come visit you in Louviers? We would like to, very much, but not if you would find our visit too disturbing. We want to know you and we have an idea to propose. But again, if you’d prefer that we didn’t, we will not come.
Always, our blessings for your kindness and courage.
Sincerely,
Amelia Maugery
From Juliet to Sidney
16th June, 1946
Dear Sidney,
How comforting it was to hear you say “God damn, oh God damn.” That’s the only honest thing to say, isn’t it? Elizabeth’s death is an abomination and it will never be anything else.
It’s odd, I suppose, to mourn so for someone you’ve never met. But I do. I have felt Elizabeth’s presence all along; she lingers in every room I enter, not just in the cottage, but in Amelia’s library, which she stocked with books, and Isola’s kitchen, where she stirred up potions. Everyone always speaks of her—even now—in the present tense, and I had convinced myself that she would return. I wanted so much to know her.
It’s worse for everyone else. When I saw Eben yesterday, he seemed older than ever before. I’m glad he has Eli by him. Isola has disappeared. Amelia says not to worry; she does that when she’s sick at heart.
Dawsey and Amelia have decided to go to Louviers to try to persuade Mlle. Giraud to come to Guernsey. There was a heartrending moment in her letter—Elizabeth used to help her go to sleep in the camp by planning their future in Guernsey. She said it sounded like Heaven. The poor girl is due for some Heaven; she has already been through Hell.
I am to take care of Kit while they are gone. I am so sad for her—she will never know her mother—except by hearsay. I wonder about her future, too, as she is now—officially—an orphan. Mr. Dilwyn told me there is plenty of time to make a decision. “Let us leave well enough alone at the moment.” He doesn’t sound like any other banker or trustee I’ve ever heard of, bless his heart.
All my love,
Juliet
From Juliet to Mark
17th June, 1946
Dear Mark,
I’m sorry that our conversation ended badly last night. It’s very difficult to convey shades of meaning while roaring into the telephone. It’s true—I don’t want you to come this weekend. But it has nothing whatever to do with you. My friends have just been dealt a terrible blow. Elizabeth was the center of the circle here, and the news of her death has shaken us all. How strange—when I picture you reading that sentence, I see you wondering why this woman’s death has anything to do with me or you or your plans for the weekend. It does. I feel as though I’d lost someone very close to me. I am in mourning.
Do you understand a little better now?
Yours,
Juliet
