The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

The crematorium could not burn the bodies fast enough—so after we dug long trenches, we pulled and dragged the bodies to the edges and threw them in. You’ll not believe it, but the SS forced the prisoners’ band to play music as we lugged the corpses—and for that, I hope they burn in hell with polkas blaring. When the trenches were full, the SS poured petrol over the bodies and set fire to them. Afterwards, we were supposed to cover them with dirt—as if you could hide such a thing.

The British got there the next day, and dear God, but we were glad to see them. I was strong enough to walk down the road, so I saw the tanks crash down the gates and I saw the British flag painted on their sides. I turned to a man sitting against a fence nearby and called out “We’re saved! It’s the British!” Then I saw he was dead. He had only missed it by minutes. I sat down in the mud and sobbed as though he’d been my best friend.

When the Tommies came down out of the tanks, they were weeping, too—even the officers. Those good men fed us, gave us blankets, saw us to hospitals. And bless them, they burned Belsen to the ground a month later.

I read in the newspaper that they’ve put up a war refugee camp in its place now. It gives me the shivers to think of new barracks being built there, even for a good purpose. To my mind, that land should be a blank forever.

I’ll write no more of this, and I hope you’ll understand if I do not care to speak of it. As Seneca says, “Light griefs are loquacious, but the great are dumb.”

I do recall something you might like to know for your book. It happened in Guernsey, when I was still pretending to be Lord Tobias. Sometimes of an evening Elizabeth and I would walk up to the headlands to watch the bombers flying over—hundreds of them, on their way to bomb London. It was terrible to watch and know where they were headed and what they meant to do. The German radio had told us London was leveled—flattened, with nothing left but rubble and ashes. We didn’t quite believe them, German propaganda being what it was, but still—

We were walking through St. Peter Port on one such night when we passed the McLaren House. That was a fine old house taken over by German officers. A window was open and the wireless was playing a beautiful piece of music. We stopped to listen, thinking it must be a program from Berlin. But, when the music ended, we heard Big Ben strike and a British voice said, “This is the BBC—London.” You can never mistake Big Ben’s sound! London was still there! Still there. Elizabeth and I hugged, and we started waltzing up the road. That was one of the times I could not think about while I was in Neuengamme.

Yours sincerely,

John Booker

From Dawsey to Juliet

16th May, 1946

Dear Juliet,

There’s nothing left to do for your arrival except wait. Isola has washed, starched, and ironed Elizabeth’s curtains, looked up the chimney for bats, cleaned the windows, made up the beds, and aired all the rooms.

Eli has carved a present for you, Eben has filled your woodshed, and Clovis has scythed your meadow— leaving, he says, the clumps of wildflowers for you to enjoy. Amelia is planning a supper party for you on your first evening.

My only job is to keep Isola alive until you get here. Heights make her giddy, but nevertheless she climbed to the roof of Elizabeth’s cottage to stomp for loose tiles. Fortunately, Kit saw her before she reached the eaves and ran for me to come talk her down.

I wish I could do more for your welcome—I hope it may be soon. I am happy you are coming.

Yours,

Dawsey

Juliet to Dawsey

19th May, 1946

Dear Dawsey,

I’ll be there the day after tomorrow! I am far too cowardly to fly, even with the inducement of gin, so I shall come by the evening mail boat.

Would you give Isola a message for me? Please tell her that I don’t own a hat with a veil, and I can’t carry lilies—they make me sneeze—but I do have a red wool cape and I’ll wear that on the boat.

Dawsey, there isn’t one thing you could do to make me feel more welcome in Guernsey than you already have. I’m having trouble believing that I am going to meet you all at last.

Yours ever,

Juliet

From Mark to Juliet

May 20, 1946

Dear Juliet,

You asked me to give you time, and I have. You asked me not to mention marriage, and I haven’t. But now you tell me that you’re off to bloody Guernsey for—what? A week? A month? Forever? Do you think I’m going to sit back and let you go?

You’re being ridiculous, Juliet. Any half-wit can see that you’re trying to run away, but what nobody can understand is why. We’re right together—you make me happy, you never bore me, you’re interested in the things I’m interested in, and I hope I’m not deluded when I say I think the same is true for you. We belong together. I know you loathe it when I tell you I know what’s best for you, but in this case, I do.

For God’s sake, forget about that miserable island and marry me. I’ll take you there on our honeymoon—if I must.

Love,

Mark

From Juliet to Mark

20th May, 1946

Dear Mark,

You’re probably right, but even so, I’m going to Guernsey tomorrow and you can’t stop me.

I’m sorry I can’t give you the answer you want. I would like to be able to.

Love,

Juliet

P.S. Thank you for the roses.

From Mark to Juliet

Oh for God’s sake. Do you want me to drive you down to Weymouth?

Mark

From Juliet to Mark

Will you promise not to lecture me?

Juliet

From Mark to Juliet

No lectures. However, all other forms of persuasion will be employed.