The Book of Lies Page 12

  Property of Emile Philippe Rozier

  The Director-General of the BBC

  Broadcasting House

  Portland Place

  London

  W1A 1AA

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing with regard to the television documentary ‘Lying with the Enemy’ aired on Sunday night last.

  I was outraged and appalled by what I felt was a grossly inaccurate depiction of Guernsey and its people during the Second World War, pandering to only the lowest sensibilities. It would of course be impossible to convey the full tragedy of our five years spent under German rule in a mere 60 minutes, but you clearly approached the subject with an agenda, and the result was a crass simplification of a complex history. You stirred up the usual controversies but had no fresh material as the basis for your claims, instead hoping to titillate your viewers by dwelling on subjects such as the apparently ‘all too common’ liaisons between local women and German soldiers.

  Although I do not deny that these liaisons occurred, I would like to alert you to the presence of French prostitutes, brought onto the island for the sole purpose of ‘servicing’ the troops. How lusty do you imagine us natives to be? For the most part Guernsey housewives devoted all their energies to finding ways to clothe and feed their families. My own mother, for example, was reduced to working as a laundress, pressing and mending officers’ uniforms to earn extra money. When asked what she thought about this so-termed ‘horizontal collaboration’, she said most people on the island were too exhausted to involve themselves in illicit sexual liaisons. She pointed out that those that did were often the very young and naive, or the poor and ill-educated, and they were not won over by charming ‘officer gentlemen’ but more worn down by their own desperate circumstances.

  Most islanders had no idea when the Occupation would end. Many believed the Germans were here to stay. By 1942 we were surviving on less than 1,000 calories a day. It was a terrible time, but our personal circumstances were not nearly as pitiful as those of the foreign labourers brought in to build Hitler’s Atlantic Wall, many of whom perished in the most appalling conditions. Your film was replete with lingering shots of the bunkers and towers, and yet barely made reference to the human cost of building them.

  Had you taken the time to interview a diverse cross-section of islanders you might have come closer to the extremely complex truth, instead of making such extraordinary claims whilst consistently underplaying genuine acts of what you called ‘petty resistance’ such as the harbouring of banned radio sets, or the theft of food or fuel. Let me assure you these crimes resulted in very serious penalties on more than one occasion. Perhaps they are not grand acts of heroism when considered against Great Britain’s apparently impeccable war record, but they are memorable when set in the appropriate context, which is something you consistently failed to do. Guernsey is a tiny island, and with such a dense concentration of enemy soldiers it was impossible for any large-scale resistance movements to develop.

  The hardship of life under German rule varied from household to household, but, generally speaking, the constant fear and deprivation led to bitterness, resentment and exhaustion. By 1945 both soldiers and civilians alike were in a desperate and humiliated state. One German officer compared the island to a ‘sanatorium’ for the sick and wounded. In real life people had lost their health, their livelihoods and their property, children had lost the chance of a decent education, whole families had been destroyed.

  Furthermore, I would like to point out that Guernsey was six million pounds in debt after the Occupation, and there has been no compensation for islanders who were deported or imprisoned by the Germans. It is thus perhaps a drama, but one that is continuing.

  I am appalled at how standards have slipped into the gutter and I have grown tired of these poorly researched, anti-Channel Island programmes, and therefore will not be renewing my television licence, since I cannot agree with providing financial support for things I stand firmly against.

  Yours sincerely

  E.P. Rozier

  Manager/Editor of The Patois Press

  Sans Soucis

  Village de Courtils

  St Peter Port

  P.S. There were no GESTAPO on the Channel Islands – only Geheimfeld Polizei. Lack of proper research only entrenches stereotypes and deepens the resentments we islanders feel towards those so intent on judging us.

  17TH DECEMBER 1985, 9 p.m.

  [In bed, dreaming of Michael Priaulx.]

  Sex! Drama! Passion! Who needs TV?

  I’ve just been on the phone to Michael. I called him up after boiling myself alive in the bath, and applying three coats of The-Body-Shop-Sage-and-Comfrey-Blemish-Minimiser to my entire body.

  I welcomed him back to Guernsey and he asked me if I was being Ironic. I was impressed/surprised that he knew what it meant.

  ‘I get the feeling people are avoiding me and I thought you might be, too,’ he said. ‘We should meet, have a catch-up.’

  Catch-up might be code for a Rampant Snog. (OK. Probably not.)

  ‘I’ve only been back five minutes and I’m going mad. Mum’s scared to let me out of the house and jumps whenever the phone rings.’

  I can’t blame Mrs Priaulx for being a bit anxious. She remembers her youngest son drinking Meths/ head-butting cattle/crashing his motorbike a trillion times, and she probably just hoped he’d grow out of it. At least she’s letting him out of the house, though. We’ve arranged to meet by the old Military Cemetery tomorrow afternoon. Don’t worry, that’s not as grim as it sounds! The cemetery is actually very pretty and well-kept, with all the graves arranged in mathematical fractions, and the lawns neatly clipped, etc. Down the far end there’s a big cement cross with flowerbeds beneath it. You never see anyone there, though, so whoever does the gardening must be embarrassed to be seen doing it, because most of the graves are German.

  But not all of them. My grandfather is buried there, par exemple. He was a soldier in the First World War and for a long time I thought that was how he died. I can’t believe he’s too happy about where he’s buried since he’s stuck between a Jerseyman and a German. But the German was quite famous and his death caused a scandal. At first they thought a farmer had killed him, then they decided he’d killed himself because he didn’t want to be sent to the Russian Front. Then they said he’d been robbed and stabbed by his own batman (who was promptly found down a well and so obviously had committed suicide). As this story demonstrates, Hitler only sent his youngest/most inept/injured soldiers to the islands because they wouldn’t be needed to fight. They therefore mostly had a holiday.41 Dad said it was a shame Syphilis didn’t kill them all. Have I mentioned the French-style brothels dotted around St Peter Port? And that’s not to mention what the local women were up to. Inevitably there were frequent outbreaks of Venerable Diseases, as well as some suspiciously blonde babies.42

  Dad said the Occupation brought out the worst in everyone. One young soldier was shot because he didn’t want to be a Nazi and tried to run away, and another was killed for milking a cow. Of course, that was in 1944 when everyone was starving or eating their domestic pets, and although his death was tragic, it wasn’t his cow to milk. There’s also the story of the soldiers who were drowned because they refused to leave the rock they were standing on, even though it was slowly being covered by the tide. No one came to relieve them of their guard duty and they refused to be helped by a local fisherman.

  FYI: There were four or five suicides a week among the troops in occupied territories in 1943. This is widely attributed to low morale, local alcohol and only pets to eat. Certainly by 1944 the German soldiers left on Guernsey were in a terrible state. They even tried to eat seagulls they were so hungry.

  They never ate each other but I told Vicky they did. Unfortunately she believed me and dreamt there were flesh-eating Nazi Zombies lurking on the cliffs. For three weeks solid she woke up screaming and couldn’t be left alone. Dr Senner was understandably upset and came round to
talk to Dad about it. He (wrongly) blamed Dad for putting ‘Sensational’ ideas into my head. At first I thought this was a compliment, but he then told Dad to ‘Face-Facts’ and ‘Get-a-Grip’. It was very excruciating for Mum, who was left to apologise after Dad turned pink and then purple and stormed off to the Yacht Club. She whispered something to Dr S., who mentioned seeing Dad at the surgery. I wanted to ask why, but I wasn’t supposed to hear.

  It was much later when Dad came back and loaded the TV into the boot of his car. He was staggering slightly from the effort and his eyes were red with fury. I tried to go and hug him but he pushed me away and ordered me to my room. He said I’d let him down terribly, and he promised me that he’d never tell me anything about his work ever-ever-ever again.

  He kept to his word, as a matter of fact. He stopped taking me out in the boat, and when he was home he locked himself in his study until late. I’m sad to say we hardly ever spoke properly again, and it was only after he’d died that I went into his study and took copies of all his books and went through his files. That’s also when I started learning them off by heart and inside out. I wanted to make sure that I never got my facts wrong again, and I wanted to make Dad proud of me. In case he ever came back.

  Mr McCracken would’ve found Dad’s files so interesting, and if he’d ever bothered to look at them, they might’ve taken his mind off his messy divorce. Divorces can be time-consuming and traumatic, and I’m sure the Deadly Poison Pen Letters only made the trauma worse. They kept appearing on his windscreen after school, and sometimes they were tucked between textbooks on his desk. I can’t be sure when they started, and they were often only a word (although COCK-SUCKER might actually be two).

  Dad said you should always get your facts straight before you jump to hasty conclusions. He said everyone had the wrong idea about the Roziers, because they believed what they’d been told and never bothered to ask more questions. There was a lot of finger-pointing during the Occupation, as I’ve already said, and it didn’t even stop when the Germans left. People were driven by money, malice, or just plain envious jealousy, and those who were wrongly accused had to move to Torteval.43

  Par le chemin, the only reason I know about Mr Mac’s nasty letters was because I was with him when he found one. It was a few days after Michael’s accident and I was trying to take my mind off things by helping him tidy the History library. I’d also got my first B– and needed to discuss this Greek tragedy.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ is what Mr Mac said, ‘but you have been a bit distracted. This is an important year, and I don’t want to hear any more tales about you and Michael Priaulx doing whatever it was you were doing.’

  ‘Nothing was going on with me and Michael,’ I promised, ‘but I do feel bad that’s he’s ended up half-dead.’

  Mr Mac carried on stacking The Tudors onto a shelf.

  ‘If Michael had been drinking and you saw him before the fall, you should tell the police.’

  Mr Mac was frowning at me now, and I hated the feeling that I’d let him down again. It made me quite emotional. I’m not usually one to start crying in public, but that ‘B–’ had really cut me up. I stood there, clutching G.R. Elton, and before I knew it tears were streaming down my cheeks. It was like I’d sprung a leak: my shoulders shook and my lungs heaved. How embarrassing. I didn’t see Mr McCracken’s face because I was looking at my feet, but he gently rested his hand on my shoulder. I thought that was very big of him. I must’ve turned. He was close enough so that I could’ve pressed my head into his chest. I bet it would have felt like the most natural thing in the world (or Guernsey). I could smell his spicy cologne and I wondered if he had stubble. Sometimes when I saw Dad asleep on the sofa I didn’t just want to prod him awake – I wanted to run my finger along his chin and feel his stubble. One time I did and he didn’t even notice. I remember its smell quite distinctly.

  Mr McCracken was a lot taller than me so our faces didn’t get close.

  ‘There, there,’ he said.

  After a few minutes I pulled myself together and tidied up my book pile and thanked him.

  ‘Come on.’ He picked up his briefcase. ‘I’ll give you a lift home, you’re in no fit state to cycle.’

  So we walked to the staff car park, and that’s when I saw the note on his windscreen. I could tell by his face it wasn’t the first. Poor Mr McCracken. Our melt-in-the-mouth moment was ruined. I tried to take his mind off it as we drove through the water lanes. We talked a bit more about Michael and his injuries.

  ‘That boy had a death wish,’ sighed Mr Mac.

  I told him he was wrong.

  I then explained the massive difference between death and dying (and this bit is very deep). Most people are afraid of death but are actually quite curious about dying. Dying is about experiencing something terrifying but also thrilling, where your heart either goes very fast or stalls. Dying is about seeing your life flash around you in Brilliant Technicolor. It’s about taking a big risk: like driving at maximum speeds or stealing something precious or jumping off something high. It’s about pushing your luck and getting away with it and deciding life isn’t so bad. Death, on the other hand, is a big, blank space. You feel and see nothing. It’s not even a colour. When you’re dead people forget who you are and what you looked like. They carry on without you. I can’t believe Michael wanted that to happen.

  ‘You’ve thought about it an awful lot, haven’t you?’ muttered Mr Mac.

  I nodded back. ‘I used to hate thinking about it. I even developed this excellent theory that nobody ever died, they just went somewhere far away, like Australia.’

  He smiled. ‘Why Australia?’

  ‘I don’t know, although, coincidentally, Michael has an uncle who moved there after the War. He told me he wanted to visit him.’

  The McGears crunched and we shuddered into the Village.

  ‘Well,’ sighed Mr Mac, ‘the weather’s nice but it’s a funny sort of a place, no history, everything’s so new.’

  I couldn’t really imagine it.

  We pulled up outside the house and I don’t know why, but I imagined that Dad was waiting for me. I pictured him coming to the door to welcome me back from school. Maybe I’d been thinking about Dad as much as I’d been thinking about Michael. Of course, it would’ve been very unlike Dad to come to the front door to greet me. No, he’d be sitting in his study, completely ignoring/avoiding me. So I imagined him in his study. I wondered if he’d secretly be pleased to hear that I’d kept all his papers.

  The car had stuttered to a halt and McCracky was staring at me.

  ‘What?’

  I tried to look calm. I hadn’t realised I was speaking out loud.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I see,’ he laughed. ‘You were talking to yourself. I know someone else who does that, apparently you get a better class of conversation that way. I don’t suppose it says much about the quality of my company.’

  I opened the car door. ‘I don’t talk to myself.’

  ‘Oh?’ he frowned. ‘Who do you talk to then?’

  I stared up at our house and of course I knew the answer. It was properly Ironic. I couldn’t talk to Dad the whole time he was alive, but the minute he was dead I knew he’d have to listen.

  18th December 1965

  Tape: 3 (A side) ‘The testimony of C.A. Rozier’

  [Transcribed by E.P. Rozier]

  The dead can’t talk and it’s a shame, since there’s one dead man I’d really like some answers off and that’s Jean-Pierre Duquemin. J-P was a chap Ray knew, a mechanic at Falla’s Garage, but he was also a crapaud, which should’ve been an omen. I don’t like Jerseymen any more than the English, although to give J-P his due he worked hard and only ever said ‘mais wai’ to everything he was asked. P’têt he agreed too much with what Ray said, and if that’s so he paid a heavy price for his goodwill. I cannot think of a worse way to die.

  He’s buried next
to Pop at Fort St George, and I like to keep their graves tidy in case we ever get visitors. Not that Ray Le Poidevoin would be welcome. He can stay on the other side of the world and that is still too close for comfort.

  Three isn’t ever a good number, is it? I knew it from the offing. But we needed J-P, since it was him who got us the Seagull outboard motor and it was him who found us some good black paint.

  ‘Have you got a death wish?’ laughed Ray when he clapped eyes on Sarnia Chérie. ‘Escaping on a bright-red boat? We’d have been sitting ducks.’

  I hunched my shoulders and blushed from shame.

  ‘I was going to paint her, of course I was.’

  ‘Well,’ Ray nudged Jean-Pierre, ‘now we all can.’

  I knew I was out of my depth, but once old Ray got going he was like a dog with a bone. He told me to get to work on mapping a route to Southampton, meanwhile J-P caulked the boat and he found us a half-decent trailer. Planning an escape, I soon realised, was a serious business. I had to find an embarkation point, get to know the shipping routes, work out the timings of night patrols.

  In case you’re curious, Emile, I’d done a good job of hiding Sarnia Chérie for two long years. Old Mess. Chardine44 had a boatshed not used for nearly a decade, over at Hommet Bonnet. It was so overgrown you couldn’t see it till you were in it and nobody imagined it was ever worth bothering with. To tell the truth, the Krauts acted like they knew every inch of this island but they didn’t know their Jaonniere from their Jerbourg, and they’d never get their nice boots dirty! So J-P was working there at night, under cover, and I started scouting further up the coast. It was a good few weeks before I settled on a slipway, just north of Bordeaux Harbour.45 There were mines in the fields all around but the track was safe, since fishing boats still used it. From there I reckoned we’d have a safe run out to sea.