The Book of Ebenezer le Page (49 page)

There was one young chap from England came over for a holiday after the Liberation who got my goat. He was with his girl, so perhaps he was only showing off. The funny thing was he looked like a German himself with his bull neck and his bullet head and his short fair hair; but he said he came from London. He didn't accuse me outright of being a ‘collaborator', as he called it, but he said those who was the heads of our government in Guernsey had collaborated with the Germans. I saw red. The head of our government was not the Bailiff of the States when the Germans came, but Ambrose Sherwill who was the President of the Controlling Committee, and I feel about that man the way old Wally Budden felt about Prince Albert the Good: only I think Ambrose Sherwill was better. He was brave outside all reason. He was a major during the First World War, and won an M.C.; and, if when the tables was turned and he treated the German officers as if they was as much gentlemen as he was, it wasn't because he was on their side. He risked his arm time and again for our sake; and he went so far as to give shelter in his own house and steal uniforms for two Guernsey boys, who had been sent over from England like the spies to Jericho. The boys was sent to a camp, but as prisoners of war: so their lives was saved; and Ambrose himself might have been shot. As it was, he was suspect, and lost his job; and when those who had been officers in the First World War was sent to a camp in Germany, he was made to go. Gerald Mahy was in the same camp, and wasn't the sort of chap to have a good word to say for those in authority. He would have been more likely to be glad if they fell from their perch; but he couldn't speak well enough of Ambrose Sherwill. He was the same magnificent chap in the camp as he was on the island. When he became Bailiff after the War, and was made Sir Ambrose by the King, he wasn't too proud to put his hand up and smile and say ‘Good-morning, Mr Le Page,' or ‘Good-afternoon, Mr Le Page,' any time he saw me in Town: it didn't matter who he was with.

Young Jack Leale, who took over from him for the last years of the Occupation, was a different sort of chap altogether, but in his way as good. He wasn't warm and loveable as Ambrose was, nor as reckless, but he was a truly honourable man. I write of him as Jack Leale with no disrespect, though he was made Sir John, for I remember him as a long thin boy, who used to sit on the rocks in front of the Hawthorns reading a book. He became a Wesley an Minister and wasn't a man who liked wars, or wanted wars; and he didn't want us to hate anybody, not even the Germans: but he was like steel in his quiet way to get out of them all he thought was fair for them to let us have. When I think of those who was the heads of Guernsey during the Occupation, I am proud to be a Guernseyman; but nowadays when Guernsey is flourishing like the green bay tree, I am not so sure.

The London boy said he was sorry, he hadn't meant to offend me: he didn't know I felt so strongly about it. I said that was all right: he couldn't help it. He came from a country where the politicians can back out, when they make a mess of things, and leave it to another lot to clear up. It wasn't like that over here: ours couldn't back out, because there was nowhere to back out to. They had to go on with it, as best they could. He wasn't a bad boy really and we parted quite good friends. I didn't tell him about the once when I really did get angry, and that was when Victor Carey, the Bailiff, put a notice in the paper offering a reward of twenty-five pounds for information against anybody who put up a V-sign. I may have been wrong, and perhaps the poor old Bailiff was made to sign on the dotted line, but I didn't think so at the time. I hadn't taken much notice of the craze for putting up V-signs until then: I didn't see it did much good; but when I read that notice in the
Press
, I made up my mind I would put up some V-signs, and in the enemy camp.

I didn't say a word to Tabitha of what I was going to do, because I knew she would have tried to stop me, in case I got caught. I slipped out one night when she was in bed asleep. It was a time when we was going to bed as soon as it was dark, because we only had a few candles left, and what wood we had was only for cooking. I happened to have some tar left over from doing my boat; and I poured it into a paint tin and found a brush and went down with foul intent to Timbuctoo. There must have been thirty to forty soldiers at least living in Timbuctoo; though I can't think how or where they slept. I suppose in rows on the floors. They was all indoors when I got there; but they had light and heat. They was up yet and I could hear them jabbering. One might come out at any minute, but I knew Percy's yard like the back of my hand; and there was always the tombstones I could hide behind. I was lucky and was not disturbed; and I painted big V's in thick black tar on the backsides of three of the cherubs. I got back safe to Les Moulins and felt better.

There was a lot of laughing around L'Islet over those V-signs, and I was sorry I couldn't say it was me who had done it; but I didn't trust anybody that far. Anyhow, nobody ever won those twenty-five pounds and Guernsey people would have gone on putting up V-signs for ever, if the Germans hadn't got the bright idea of putting up V-signs for themselves; and that stopped Guernsey people doing it, more or less. The Germans left mine on the cherubs, which had already been decorated in front by the soldiers with those parts Percy had left out; and on the big side, I thought, for cherubs. They was still there when the Germans had gone and the two Miss Hocarts from the Hubits bought Timbuctoo and had it done up for a guest-house. They wanted to keep the cherubs as the Germans had left them to show the summer visitors; but the Committee for Natural Beauties stepped in and said they must be cleaned up, and my V-signs was scrubbed off as well.

I was one of the lucky ones during the Occupation. I had a house and a garden and a greenhouse of my own; and the Germans didn't lay a hand on any of it. It is true a lot of what I grew went to feed the Germans; but I couldn't help that. I didn't let the G.U.B. take me over either; though it might have been better for my pocket if I had. I would have got a regular wage, which I didn't always get from working and selling my own; but after a time the growers was all given back the management of their own property, so I was no worse off in the end. I might have been moved out of the house to make room for Germans; seeing as there was only Tabitha and me living in it. It was looked at once by a couple of Germans in civvies; but I think what counted against it most was there was no gas or electricity. As it happened, the last year there was precious little of either for anybody.

Young Lihou worked for me after all. He went to England to enlist, as he wanted to; but was sent back to Guernsey to wait for his calling-up papers in the proper way. He was still waiting for his calling-up papers in the proper way when the Germans came into possession. I took him on full-time for all the year round; and he worked for me the whole five years. He then set up on his own and accepted a little help from me, I am glad to say. I owed him much more. He could have left me at any time and got a much higher rate of pay working for the Germans. He got married and begat three children before the Occupation was over; so he couldn't have been too weak in the knees. The Occupation at least cured me of chasing after the girls. I was getting on in years, I know; but I wasn't by any means past it yet, and I had some trouble to keep myself in order after the Liberation. It wasn't because I had gone good I lived like a monk during the Occupation; but I got the feeling if I went on the gallivant, I would be being disloyal to Tabitha in some way, and land her in danger. The last year, anyhow, I was too weak and hungry to lust after anything but food.

I depended on Tabitha more than I like to admit. If it hadn't been for her, I would have done some even madder things than I did do. She was always steady; and it wasn't so easy to keep your head with all the wild stories going around. You never knew what to believe, and what not; and you couldn't believe a word you read in the
Press
. The first year was cushy actually, and not at all what we had expected. Some people was quite won over by the Germans: they was so polite and didn't interfere. I remember old Mrs Renouf from L'Islet saying, ‘Ah well, the Germans is not so bad as they was painted. I always say you got to live with people before you know what they're like, eh?' There was some more air-raids, but by our own side: one or two only to drop leaflets, and one broke the windows of the Town Church and of shops at the bottom end of High Street. Another was on Fort George, which was full of Germans; but I don't think any Guernseys was killed. When the Americans over-ran the north of France, people was saying they would come across and free us before they went on further; and some even thought the Germans might hop it of their own accord. I was thinking something of the sort myself; but Tabitha said, ‘It is too much to hope.'

Actually, it made it worse for us, not better. Food couldn't be brought over from France, as it had been, because it would be feeding the Germans as well as us; and Churchill wouldn't let any food be sent to us from England for the same reason. If it hadn't been for the Red Cross ship bringing us food the last year, we would have starved; but the Germans took more of our home-grown food to make up for it, so we wasn't much better off. At the end, when the War was really won and Hitler was dead, it was the worst time for Guernsey, and the most terrible stories was going the rounds. It was said the Germans was going to hang on to the Channel Islands at all costs; and, if on Guernsey there wasn't enough food for the Guernsey people, they was going to be herded together at one end of the island, either to be fetched off by the English, or left there to die. Old Mrs Renouf, who had changed her tune by then, said the Germans was putting up barbed wire on L'Ancresse Common; and we was all going to be put in paddocks like cattle, and guarded by Alsatian dogs like the prisoners on Alderney. It wasn't true; but I think Tabitha believed it. She said, ‘Ah well, there is only one way of living in this world, and that is to go on from day to day, and see what the next day bring.'

At first there was a certain amount of food and other things you could buy in the shops. I went to Town a few times on the rampage, and came home loaded; but the Germans was buying up everything worth having. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw those solid lumps of Germans crowding into the shops in St Peter Port. It was like a dream, it wasn't real; and, in a way, those whole five years are like a dream. There is a lot I don't remember, or only remember all mixed up; and some things I want to forget. I don't like people asking me questions about the Occupation, the way the visitors do. I say I don't know. For that matter, when I go to Town nowadays and see all the visitors about, it is as much like a bad dream as when the Germans was here. I feel I got no right to live on the island now; except in the winter.

I am willing to believe the Controlling Committee tried their best to arrange things fair for everybody; but what annoyed me most was having cards for this and cards for that, and everything I got counted. It is a craze have gone on ever since. I must say I think now the Controlling Committee did a bit of juggling with the numbers; but it was honest because it was for our good. I didn't know that then, of course; and I was furious when a young Guernsey chap came round with a book and pencil and wanted to know how many pigs I got, and how many fowls and how many vergées of ground and how many feet of glass and what I was growing inside, and what I was growing outside. I had to tell him all my business; and didn't know him from Adam. The only order I got as a result of that visit was to pull up the flowers in the front garden and plant potatoes, which I was meaning to do in any case.

When the Germans came, I had two pigs; and Monsieur Le Boutillier had two pigs. He said it would be a good idea if he killed one and I had half, then at least we would have some salted pork to eat. When that was eaten, I killed one of mine, and he had half; and nothing was said. The counting hadn't started yet. When that young chap came round with his book and pencil, we still had one pig each; and they was put down in the book. After he had gone, Monsieur Le Boutillier said he was going to kill his, and I could have half again. It would be better than keeping it to feed the Germans. I agreed and said I would kill mine when his was eaten and share it with him. Judge of my horror when Mr Tom Ozanne, who had to do with the Controlling Committee, turned up one fine day with a German Officer and, of course, a book and a pencil. They had come to check the tally of the pigs. Monsieur Le Boutillier's was nearly eaten.

I didn't know the Germans had suddenly got pigs on the brain. They had been struck by a bright idea. They was going to breed thousands of pigs: enough to feed themselves and everybody else on the island. I will say at once they didn't. First of all, because most of their bright ideas came to nothing; and, second, because they never managed to find out how many pigs there was to breed from, or where they was to be found. The numbers was down in the book; but they had the cheek to accuse the Guernsey people of killing and eating the pigs without permission. Anyhow, Mr Ozanne explained the situation to me in Guernsey French; but the German said, ‘I speak the English': so Mr Ozanne had to say it all over again in English; only he said it a little different. ‘Das ist so!' said the German. He was a nasty German, that one. He had a thin mean face and a moustache like Hitler and an eye-glass in one eye and looked as if he wore stays. I was very polite. I have never been so polite. ‘Par il lo, Monsieur, s'il vous plait,' I said. He didn't know what I was saying, but I led the way, and he followed me round the back. ‘Le pourchay!' I said; and pointed to the pig in the pigsty. The old pig grunted at him and let go water and made a rude noise. Von Tirpitz looked at it through his eye-glass and said, ‘Ein schwein.' Mr Ozanne made a mark in his book. There was one pig in the pigsty, and one in the book. I was all right.