The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Love to you and Piers,

Juliet

From Juliet to Sidney

30th May, 1946

Dear Sidney,

Do you remember when you sat me down for fifteen sessions of the Sidney Stark School of Perfect Mnemonics? You said writers who sat scribbling notes during an interview were rude, lazy, and incompetent and you were going to make sure I never disgraced you. You were unbearably arrogant and I loathed you, but I learned your lessons well—and now you can see the fruits of your hard work:

I went to my first meeting of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society last night. It was held in Clovis and Nancy Fossey’s living room (with spill-over into the kitchen). The speaker of the evening was a new member, Jonas Skeeter, who was to talk about The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

Mr. Skeeter strode to the front of the room, glared at us all, and announced he didn’t want to be there and had only read Marcus Aurelius’s silly book because his oldest, his dearest, and his former friend, Woodrow Cutter, had shamed him into it. Everyone turned to look at Woodrow, and Woodrow sat there, obviously shocked and his mouth agape.

“Woodrow,” Jonas Skeeter went on, “came across my field where I was busy, building up my compost. He was holding this little book in his hands and he said he’d just finished reading it. He’d like me to read it too, he said—it was very profound.

“‘Woodrow, I’ve got no time to be profound,’ I said.

“He said, ‘You should make time, Jonas. If you’d read it, we’d have better things to talk about at Crazy Ida’s. We’d have more fun over a pint.’

“Now, that hurt my feelings, no good saying it didn’t. My childhood friend had been holding himself above me for some time—all because he read books for you people and I didn’t. I’d let it pass before—to each his own, as my Mum always said. But now he had gone too far. He had insulted me. He put himself above me in conversation.

“‘Jonas,’ he said, ‘Marcus was a Roman emperor—and a mighty warrior. This book is what he thought about, down there among the Quadi. They were barbarians who was waiting in the woods to kill all the Romans. And Marcus, hard-pressed as he was by those Quades, he took the time to write up this little book of his thoughts. He had long, long thoughts, and we could use some of those, Jonas.’

“So I pushed down my hurt and took the damned book, but I came here tonight to say before all, Shame, Woodrow! Shame on you, to put a book above your boyhood friend!

“But I did read it and here is what I think. Marcus Aurelius was an old woman— forever taking his mind’s temperature—forever wondering about what he had done, or what he had not done. Was he right—or was he wrong? Was the rest of the world in error? Could it be him instead? No, it was everybody else who was wrong, and he set matters straight for them. Broody hen that he was, he never had a tiny thought that he couldn’t turn into a sermon. Why, I bet the man couldn’t even take a piss—”

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