supplies, or lack of them. But I want to know more. I want to know the stories of the people who were there, and I can never learn those by sitting in a library in London.
For example—yesterday I was reading an article on the liberation. A reporter asked a Guernsey Islander, “What was the most difficult experience you had during the Germans’ rule?” He made fun of the man’s answer, but it made perfect sense to me.
The Islander told him, “You know they took away all of our wireless sets? If you were caught having a hidden radio, you’d get sent off to prison on the continent. Well, those of us who had secret radios, we heard about the Allies landing in Normandy. Trouble was, we weren’t supposed to know it had happened! Hardest thing I ever did was walk around St. Peter Port on June 7, not grinning, not smiling, not doing anything to let those Germans know that I KNEW their end was coming. If they’d caught on, someone would be in for it—so we had to pretend. It was very hard to pretend not to know D-Day had happened.”
I want to talk to people like him (though he’s probably off writers now) and hear about their war, for that’s what I’d like to read, instead of statistics about grain. I’m not sure what form a book would take, or if I could even write one at all. But I would like to go to St. Peter Port and find out.
Do I have your blessing?
Love to you and Piers,
10th May, 1946
HEREWITH MY BLESSING! GUERNSEY IS A WONDERFUL IDEA, BOTH FOR YOU AND FOR A BOOK. BUT WILL REYNOLDS ALLOW IT? LOVE, SIDNEY
11th May, 1946
BLESSING RECEIVED. MARK REYNOLDS IS NOT IN A POSITION TO FORBID OR ALLOW. LOVE, JULIET
13th May, 1946
My dear,
It was a delight to receive your telegram yesterday and learn that you are coming to visit us!
I followed your instructions and spread the news at once—you have sent the Society into a whirlwind of excitement. The members instantly offered to provide you with anything you might need: bed, board, introductions, a supply of electric clothes-pins. Isola is over the moon that you are coming and is already at work on behalf of your book. Though I cautioned her that it was only an idea as yet, she is bound and determined to find material for you. She has asked (perhaps threatened) everyone she knows in the market to send you letters about the Occupation; she thinks you’ll need them to persuade your publisher that the subject is book-worthy. Don’t be surprised if you are 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
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,
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.”
