When the Sky Fell Apart (43 page)

Edith sighed. ‘Swim back to Jersey, I suppose. Then try to hide. We're half a mile out, I think. We'll swim until the current catches hold of us and pulls us back.'

‘But they'll find us. And they'll kill us. Like Maurice. And Gregor.' Claudine couldn't quell her frantic panic: there was no escape.

‘There now. No noise, do you hear? Crying won't help us—plenty of time for tears later.'

Claudine tugged on her hair and counted her teeth with her tongue until the roiling spinning terror in her head stilled. Then she said, quietly, ‘Could we swim to England? People do.'

‘How far would we get, do you think, before we drowned?' Edith laughed. It was a raw, desperate, savage sound that Claudine had never heard from her before. More like Maman's laugh. Then Claudine heard something else.

‘Hush, Edith!'

And there it was: a musical
splash, splash, splash.
The watery march of approaching capture and death.

Edith and Claudine both breathed the word ‘Oars' and Claudine gave a desperate cry because she knew it was the Germans, come back to take them away, to send them to a prison or to shoot them. Their blood would ooze into the black mirror of the sea.

She hid under the
vraic
again, because she suddenly felt a fierce, hopeless longing to lie down next to Maurice and Marthe, deep under the weight of the sea, eyes closed, head calm and quiet. She didn't want this terror squirming inside her, she didn't want to be dragged into a boat or shot in the sea or to starve to death in Germany or go back to Hans.

But then Edith called, ‘Hi there! Over here!'

The splashing stopped and a voice called, ‘
Où êtes-vous?'

THE fishermen gave them blankets. Edith cocooned Claudine in the soft wool and pulled the girl into her lap—she was shaking so hard Edith could hear her teeth rattling. She stroked her hair and pulled her in close and kissed her forehead.

There, there, my love. We're safe now.

She watched the rhythm of the girl's heartbeat under the skin at her throat: pounding like a desperate drum, but gradually it slowed.

Edith told the Frenchmen what had happened. No purpose in mincing words. When she told them Maurice had been killed, their faces fell and, gravely, they pulled out a bottle of brandy and took a swig each, before pouring a measure into the sea and muttering a blessing. Edith took a gulp and gave Claudine some too; she coughed a little, but the last of her shaking passed.

As the warmth of the drink sank into Edith's belly, she gave up a thought for Maurice and Marthe, lying somewhere beneath them. She felt a pressing on her chest, but she breathed until it drifted off; it wouldn't help Claudine if she fell apart now.

Her thoughts snagged on Gregor. His face, his slow smile, his kind eyes. The warmth of his breath against her ear in the dark as he held her body to his, sweating, smiling, pressing kiss after hot kiss against her flesh.

Death lasts as long as life. She would forever be left gasping by the familiar angle of a stranger's jaw in the street, or by eyes a certain shade of blue in the face of someone she had never met. She would always clutch at a ghost in the dark, wishing she could call him into being with the heat of her longing.

Sitting on the boat, Edith clasped the grief to her heart for a moment, then forced herself to straighten, to breathe, to turn her mind to the clunk of the oars and the creak of wood beneath her.
Safety.

The fishermen said they had been late setting off: a patrol on the French coast had delayed them.
If only we had been delayed an hour longer ourselves.
Pointless to say
if only.
If only the Germans had never bombed them; if only they had never invaded. If only people's hearts weren't so crammed full of darkness that they'd trade with the enemy for a pound of extra flesh.

‘The Germans must have had a tip-off,' Edith said. ‘Heaven knows who talked to them.'

‘Joan Hacquoil,' Claudine whispered. ‘I…told her everything. For the bullets. She
promised
she wouldn't tell. And she said she wanted to help Maman. But her smile… I
knew
she… I'm so sorry, Edith. I'm so,
so
sorry—'

Her voice splintered and she wept. Poor child. Edith held her fast to her chest, as the girl's maman would have done, once upon a time.

‘There, now, you're not to blame. I should never have asked you to go. You're but a child. A child. There, my love, there.'

Edith kissed the top of her head again and again. The girl's hair was wet and smelt of salt and blood—scents of a baby, freshly born. Edith laid her down, Claudine's head upon her lap.

‘You're safe, my love. Just try to rest.' She stroked her cheek and sang:

After Claudine had fallen asleep, Edith said to the Frenchmen, ‘Is there somewhere we can lie low in France? I know you're as riddled with Germans as we are, but I hoped…I can't let her go back, you see, to Jersey.'

They looked at each other. Some current of understanding passed between them and they dipped their heads. The younger of the two said, ‘We take you
en Angleterre
. We must. For Maurice. He want this for you, I think.'

‘But what about the risk to you? Patrols and the like?'

‘They catch your friends. They kill Maurice. This is enough work for them this night. I think no more patrols.'

Edith thanked them, and then fixed her eyes upon the horizon. She liked Maurice's thought of staying on the coast. They must have some of the same plants in England, surely? She would be able to sit on the beach and gaze out at the endless blue of the sea and listen to the promise it made daily:
things could change
.

Then too, she would know that, even though she couldn't see it, she was staring towards Jersey, just out of sight, over the horizon. And she would give her own promise back to the whispering sea: one day, she would take Claudine home.

The Frenchmen started rowing again.

CLAUDINE dozed while they took it in turns to row. Sometimes her head was filled with the noises of flesh slapping flesh, or of black blood glugging from a wound, and she cried out: an infant howl, arms beating the air in panic.

Edith held her hand and told her stories until she drifted back into a fitful, tortured sleep. Day and night bled into one another.

Edith told her that while Dr Carter might be sent to Germany, he would care for the people in the camps. Her voice trembled as she told her about Gregor, and how the Germans wouldn't have hurt him badly after all, because he was one of their own. They would let him go back home to care for his sickly wife, poor love. Perhaps he would meet Dr Carter in Germany and they would find medicine for Gregor's arm and for his wife's head.

‘There's a remedy for everything, you see. You only have to know where to look.'

Claudine slept. She dreamed of Francis. She called his name; he turned but he didn't recognise her and he hid in Maman's skirts.
Maman
. Her eyes were empty when Claudine tried to explain why she had left.

Claudine woke shuddering, grief-struck, but Edith told her that Maman would understand. It hadn't been Claudine's fault, none of it. Some folks had evil in their hearts that couldn't be fought. The only thing left to do was to flee from it. One day, not so far away, they would come back to Jersey: the soldiers would be gone and Maman would take Claudine into her arms and Francis would clap his hands at seeing his sister and kiss her and Claudine would hold him close and tell him how leaving him had been like severing a limb. How she had only done what she thought best. Claudine would be home again. Edith would live in her little house and Claudine would visit her every day and everything would be as it had been before the war.

Edith stroked Claudine's hair while they looked up at the stars. She told Claudine to imagine that they were all part of the stars now, all those who had died. They were part of the sky, part of the sea. Part of the land. She made Claudine draw a breath deep into her chest and close her eyes and picture their faces.

‘See now. They are there. You see them. In here. And
here
.' She tapped Claudine's head, her chest. ‘It's no different to if they were in another room. Or another country. You simply close your eyes and think on them, and there they will be.'

The sky paled and brightened and was whole again. The stars dissolved. When Claudine felt a warmth seep into her, she felt strong enough to sit up. A black shadow stretched along the horizon in both directions, as far as she could see. Behind it was an orange glow, almost as though the sun might rise after all. She closed her eyes and imagined the rich burst of sunlight, like the yolk of a cracked egg.

When she opened her eyes again, the sky was lighter, the shadow more solid, as though it was more than clouds banked on the horizon. It was something real and rooted and touchable.

She whispered, ‘What's that?'

‘England,' said one of the Frenchmen.

‘That, my love,' Edith said, ‘is freedom.'

She kissed Claudine's cheek and they clasped hands and gazed at one another. Claudine could see the hope and the terror in Edith's eyes and she tried to smile.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

While some of the characters that appear in this book are based on historical figures, and while many of the events described bear similarities to actual occurrences, this is a work of fiction and these characters and the related action are very much fictional creations.

Between the years of 1940 and 1945, the people of Jersey and the other Channel Islands endured unspeakable hardships and horrors under the German Occupation, and some of those (rationing, deportations, failed escape attempts) have served as inspiration for this novel. But I have also taken liberties with the history and geography of Jersey for the sake of storytelling. Neither of the Commandants who ruled over Jersey were as brutal as the man I have depicted here. There was no last-minute evacuation from La Rocque pier, and it is unlikely that Maurice would have moored his boat at Devil's Hole, especially as I've placed his home on the opposite side of the island. Edith would not have been able to walk from St Clement to the sand dunes, or, if she had, it would have taken her all day.

All other errors are my own.

There are, however, many excellent resources that were invaluable in making this novel what it is.

The Jersey War Tunnels, the Jersey Museum and the Maritime Museum (which houses the wonderful Occupation Tapestry) provided both inspiration and invaluable sources when I was first researching the novel.

A number of books also proved helpful: Charles Cruikshank's
The German Occupation of the Channel Islands
; Roy McLoughlin's
Living with the Enemy
; Dr John Lewis's
A Doctor's Occupation
; L.P. Sinel's
The German Occupation of Jersey
and literature from the Jersey War Tunnels were all brilliant and harrowing, in equal measure. I also drew inspiration from some of the anecdotes on BBC Radio 4's
The Reunion
, which ran an episode on the Jersey Occupation in September 2013.

My gratitude goes to the people of Jersey—and especially to those who suffered and died, or somehow survived the Occupation years.

Caroline Lea

FEBRUARY
2016

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First thanks and a debt of gratitude and love must go to my much-missed dad, Peter Lea, who wanted a peaceful life and to ‘shut those bloody kids up!' The quietest occupation I could find was reading, and an obsession with books was born. Thanks must also go to my wonderful mum, Sue Lea, who spent hours trawling bookshops for the fattest books she could find and has also always offered so much support and enthusiasm for my writing. Love and thanks to my big sisters, Sophie and Annabelle, for making me so fiercely competitive and determined (and especially to Annabelle for being such an enthusiastic reader of my work and for the editing of Carter's
ummmms
as well as the brilliant suggestion of potatoes).