The Book of Lies Read online

  As I wrestled to uncover the harrowing details of their story I grew to understand why so much had been repressed. Repression is a natural defence in the immediate aftermath of traumatic events, but it cannot become a way of life. It is time we faced up to our complicated history, and with that in mind I would like to launch my own campaign for an Unofficial Occupation Memorial. This would be a monument to be sited in a public place, and would list the names of all those who were imprisoned under German rule. For too long the bravery and courage of islanders has been overlooked, and I can remedy this situation with the help of your readers. It would go some way to countering the long silence from our States deputies.

  But perhaps our States deputies are running scared. We all know that although many islanders suffered during the War, a great many more stood by and watched. Some had no choice but to co-operate with the Germans, others swapped sides willingly. In compiling a roll call of honour I might uncover this less honourable truth. Only a very foolish person would deny the existence of collaborators, informers, jerrybags and black-market racketeers, whose behaviour during this dark period of island history was tantamount to treason. They might be few in number but they have left such a cloud of shame and guilt, and they still live amongst us, often coming from long-established Guernsey families and even occupying positions of authority. On recently re-reading back editions of this very paper I discovered that two-thirds of Guernsey’s police force were accused of larceny on a grand scale in 1942, reputedly pillaging civilian food stores from 1939 onwards (see GEP, 2nd September 1942, ‘Bailiff Denounces Police Force’).

  It is no surprise that I have met with resistance to my research. Who says there was no resistance in Guernsey! Let us have an end to it. Guernsey is a tight-knit community and we wish to protect our own. Probing questions from outsiders deepen the already entrenched paranoia, but the absence of a proper inquiry only leaves a space for further distortions. We should do our own dirty washing. Just as the names of the brave should be noted, so should the names of the traitors be known. They should have been hunted down at the end of the War and tried in public, but they weren’t. The guilt is thus passed from generation to generation.

  Sincerely

  E.P. Rozier

  Manager/Editor of The Patois Press

  Sans Soucis

  Village de Courtils,

  St Peter Port

  P.S. I would be most grateful if any persons who recall friends, relatives or neighbours who were arrested, or indeed if they themselves were subject to the long arm of Nazi law, would contact me at the above address.

  I am also seeking information on one Ray Le Poidevoin, born 1925, St Andrews Parish, now believed to be resident in Adelaide, South Australia.

  14TH DECEMBER 1985, 5.12 p.m.

  [Bedroom, still watching rain. Saturdays on Guernsey are so very riveting.]

  I used to think I was the only person Dad ever told off, but when I went through his old files I realised I was wrong. He was always writing letters, complaining about this or that. Nothing and no one escaped his scrutiny. He’d even been through our local telephone directory, making notes by people’s names or occasionally giving them a star. I counted 245 Le Poidevoins, half of which were crossed out.

  FYI: There wasn’t much action on the Prevost pages, even though there were 247 listed. That’s quite a lot, and it may explain why Therese acted so posh, if she felt she had a lot to compete with. I thought the fact that there were so many Prevosts was a sign of their success. After all, Therese had her own BMW and full-time cleaner who did all the dirty washing. By contrast us Roziers were dwindling year by year. We were dying out as per the panda bears. I mean, even Grandma (Dad’s mother) had gone back to her maiden name after she was widowed. There was/is something wrong with being called Rozier.

  But there are worse names you could have. Exhibit ‘A’: Donnie Golden. Yes, it’s ridiculous, but then he was from England so what would you expect? I can’t precisely remember when he moved into his swanky new home on the cliffs by Fort George. It was called the White House and he had a big party to show it off. Everyone from the Village19 was invited, and even though Mum announced that she was far too busy, Nic and I persuaded her to go. We told her it was about time she went out and had some fun, and offered to come along for not-very-moral support. I think she felt flattered that we cared, and she even wore shoulder pads for it.

  I should explain that for years Mum only ever wore long shirts and jeans and Nivea hand cream on her face, but when she took over the business she tried to smarten up. That’s when she permed her hair and started wearing power suits. Mum and I never fought over clothes like Nic and Therese, but we did once go to Jersey on a shopping spree. We spent a hundred pounds in BHS. You can get a lot for your money in BHS, and I joked that I got a brand new mum.

  I should’ve been happy we were doing stuff together, and she looked almost presentable as we marched up to the electric gates of the White House. But she hadn’t been to any parties since Dad had died, preferring to read P.D. James in the bath, and I could tell that she was nervous. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. I said we’d present A UNITED FRONT (meaning our neighbours were THE ENEMY), but as it turned out everyone was stupendously drunk and sliding down the wallpaper before nine o’clock, and they all agreed that it was good to see Mum out.

  Of course, Guernsey people don’t ever say what they mean. They are an excellent word called Fickle. I know I said that when the Germans took over most people ignored them, but actually the population was split down the middle. Some people stuck their noses in the air and carried on like normal, whilst others made the Germans their friends and may have even helped them. Because of this, there was a lot of bad feeling, although it was never very clear who was good and who was bad because the collaborators covered their tracks, and even accused their neighbours and friends of the very things they’d done. So innocent people were arrested and suffered for no good reason. This is an example of how dangerous gossip can be.

  Which means those people who said mean things vis-à-vis Mum’s new career should know better. She shouldn’t have to apologise to anyone. All she wanted was to make something out of what Dad left behind. If people thought she was quick off the mark, well, they didn’t know all the facts and who were they to judge? Poor Mum. Perhaps I didn’t support her enough. I didn’t want to ask if she was A-OK because I didn’t want to make her think she had to explain herself to me. When someone is arrested they’re advised not to say anything because what they say might be taken down and used in evidence against them, and it was a bit like that between us.

  Not that Mum was ever arrested.

  I took lots of photos at Donnie’s party, which annoyed and irritated everyone. There’s one of the Senners with Nic making bunny ears behind them, and one of Mr McCracken by the buffet. There’s also a good one of Michael Priaulx and his parents. He’s standing apart from them like he’s embarrassed, which I suppose he should be. Michael hated having a policeman for a dad and was often called Piglet because of it. He obviously had a lot to prove, because he was always in trouble. It would’ve been interesting if he’d ever been arrested but, as I think I’ve already mentioned, our local law enforcers believe there is no crime on Guernsey. They therefore only stop people for speeding.

  It’s a fascinating fact that during the Occupation there was a very high number of speeding tickets issued. I think that’s hilarious: the police didn’t know how else to stand up to the Nazis, so they fined them for speeding. Of course, now it’s the English who get fined, and Donnie got quite a few, but he didn’t care because he was so riche. He had a nice face but I don’t know how old it was, and he’s almost impossible to recognise in my photos because he always looked different. I was impressed by his shiny skin and slick, black hair, and I thought it was amazing his teeth were so white.

  ‘So you want to take my photo now, do you?’ He handed me a pitcher of punch. ‘You’re a better subject, though, so much prettier.’
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  He was the first person ever to call me pretty. Talk about giving candy to a baby (although in this case it was rum). I felt very proud of myself, especially since Nic was there and we’d co-ordinated our outfits perfectly. It was just after Valentine’s Day and Donnie gave us each a rose from his garden, then we walked back into the kitchen, where Michael was helping himself to a beer from the fridge. He tried to open it using the door’s hinge and despite this failing spectacularly I still thought he looked great.

  Donnie asked him if he’d been sent any Valentines and he curled his lip seductively.

  ‘Fucking stupid idea. What’s the point in sending cards telling someone you like them and not bothering to sign your name?’

  I blushed because I’d sent him one, as per always.

  Nic pulled herself up onto a sideboard and kicked out her legs.

  ‘Well, Cat’s the one you’ve got to watch. She’s got lots of admirers!’

  As if on cue, in walked Mr McCracken.

  ‘Aha! John McCracken!’ Donnie stretched out his hand. ‘So glad you came. Cathy’s been trying to take my photo. Have you been giving her lessons? I see you out on the cliffs all the time. They are picture-perfect this time of year, don’t you find?’

  Donnie waved his glass towards his excellent sea view and almost bashed into Constable Priaulx.

  ‘You’re in a prime position,’ sniffed C.P., ‘but I’m not sure I could ever live in a modern house like this. I suppose it’s all you could get on the Open Market.’20 Donnie told Constipated Piggy he preferred ‘all mod cons’ whilst quickly refilling his glass.

  C.P. nodded and harrumphed back to the buffet.

  ‘What’s he got against the English?’ laughed Donnie.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘for starters you’re a tax exile, so you’re basically just taking advantage. But more importantly, at the beginning of the Second World War you abandoned us and were entirely to blame for us being bombed and then occupied by the Germans for five years.’

  Donnie pulled a face of what I would call mocky-horror. ‘Oh, come on, the Occupation was a picnic. Didn’t everyone learn German?’

  He winked at Mr McCracken, who smiled and waved his hands. ‘I’m staying out of this.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Nic, ‘half Cat’s family were killed by the Nazis so it’s no laughing matter. She could show you where the Germans buried the dead bodies of ex-prisoners, too. It’s pretty much at the bottom of your garden.’

  Donnie froze. ‘What?’

  I pinched Nic hard.

  ‘Ow!’

  Mr McCracken shook his head.

  ‘Ignore them. There are a lot of stories and it’s mostly built on gossip and hearsay. She’s referring to an incident that was before my time, but I’m pretty sure it was a skeleton dating from the nineteenth century, and it was much further down the cliffs.’

  Nic gave me a nasty look, like I had somehow misled her, so I jumped in and explained how some of the poor people who’d been imprisoned on Alderney21 had described watching Nazi guards herd fellow inmates off the cliffs. The men were often very weak and dying, so the Germans called it ‘suicide’. They also shot some and claimed they were killed ‘trying to escape’. I said it was highly likely that the same thing had happened in Guernsey.

  I’d forgotten that Michael was still in the room, but suddenly he was standing right next to me.

  ‘It’s illegal to kill yourself on Guernsey.’ He raised an already-empty beer bottle. ‘But my dad couldn’t even arrest a corpse. Ha-ha!’

  Donnie was glaring hard at Michael (who scowled deliciously back). I pointed out that suicide was in fact the perfect murder since you couldn’t catch the killer. Everyone was meant to marvel at my intelligence but didn’t.

  Donnie waved his hands nervously and asked if we had to pursue this most morbid of topics.

  Nic jumped off the sideboard, flashing all of her thigh.

  ‘Sir . . . I was going to ask . . . did you get a card?’

  Mr McCracken’s eyes scrunched into raisins.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For Valentine’s, sir! Don’t tell me you didn’t get one, a dish like you. I bet you get all the mums excited at our parents’ evenings, and that’s saying nothing about the pupils.’

  Before Mr McCracken could answer Nic turned, cocking her head to one side.

  ‘And what about you, Donnie, is there no Mrs Golden locked in the basement?’

  Donnie smiled his best TV smile and explained how he’d spent the last ten years nursing his mother, who’d only just died and was not locked anywhere.

  ‘Between work and Mother I didn’t have much fun these last few years. After she was gone I knew I needed a change. I’ve never settled anywhere in England for long and liked the idea of living on an island. Personally, I think it’s good to be a little bit cut off from things.’

  Nic yawned. ‘Dead from the neck down, you mean.’

  Mr McCracken ignored her and asked Donnie more about his work and Donnie gave a quick version of his life story, standing straight and keeping eye contact, so as to make a good impression. He knew some of his neighbours thought him suspect (and not just because he dyed his hair). Maybe that’s why Michael liked him.

  Michael Priaulx is a god, by the way. He was brilliant at football before his accident, and I’d often see his name in the sports pages of the Press. He’s three years older than me but age is irrelevant. I’d watch him roar around Town on his motorbike and flick ‘V’ signs at everyone and feel my heart beat faster. It didn’t even matter when he started to wear eyeliner.

  Donnie said I didn’t need make-up. That night, he took me around his garden and talked more about his mother’s slow and painful death, and how he’d brought her ashes to Guernsey and scattered them in his flowerbeds, so they’d still be close. He asked me if I thought it was weird, and I assured him that it was, but that everyone had different ways of dealing with death. I then explained how Mum hadn’t cried at all after Dad died, and how instead she’d acted like she was relieved.

  ‘Well, it is a burden,’ Donnie sighed, ‘caring for someone who’s unwell.’

  I assured Donnie that Dad hadn’t been unwell.

  ‘Oh? Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m new here, remember.’

  I then explained how Dad had an accident when diving off the Moorings and had cut his hand quite deeply, and how the cut became infected. I said Dad hadn’t noticed because he was completely focused on his (Un)Official Occupation Memorial, and unfortunately the infection spread quicker than malicious island gossip. It was the infection that most probably caused the heart attack. I also swore that it was true about the bodies buried on the cliffs and told him to be careful in his garden. Donnie just laughed and said Michael did all the gardening.

  So I chatted more about Mum, and how she’d put all her energies into saving the family business, and how it was good for her to be busy and not have time to think. Donnie looking genuinely disturbed, which I enjoyed. I’m such a champion story-teller! He listened carefully as I wittered on about how Dad sacrificed his health for the sake of the truth and how Mum just did as he said, and how I never realised because I was at school.

  I tried to remember all the facts just like Mum told me, and I think I gave an impressive performance. It’s weird how I can learn things off by heart and recite them like a parrot but still not understand them. Dad didn’t make it to my last prize-giving on account of him dying and I did start to wonder why I’d worked so hard. There’s no escaping death, not for any of us. With Nic it was over in a flash but at least when she was falling she didn’t know that she was dying. Dad maybe did know, and Mum did, too.

  My conversation with Donnie went on for hours and I felt very special to have all his attention. He told me he loved the company of young people and that if I ever wanted to talk I could come and find him. I said that’d be great since Mum didn’t understand me and I wasn’t sure I could trust her. That was the first time I’d said it out loud, to anyone.

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bsp; And then she was tapping me on the shoulder.

  ‘We should be getting home. Can you go and fetch Nicolette?’

  I felt so ashamed and ran back into the house as quick as I could, grabbed Nic and dragged her outside. I was thinking I’d find Mum looking cross and apologising to Donnie on my behalf. But instead she was chatting to him about the joys of the Guille-Aillez Library. We said our goodbyes and drove Nic back to Les Paradis and I wanted to tell Mum I was sorry and that I honestly didn’t mean it. But she never said anything, so neither did I.

  I suppose we were both trying to hide what we were feeling inside, although I don’t know for sure if Mum was feeling anything. She was always as cool as a cucumber, never complaining about how hard she had to work, or her useless daughter. Perhaps nothing was as grim as the thrillers she read, and they helped her cope.

  And perhaps that explains what happened between me and Nic, sorry, Nic and I.

  I did what I did because, like Mum, I knew I could hide it.

  And, like Mum, I knew I’d get away with it, too.

  15th December 1965

  Tape: 1 (B side) ‘The testimony of C.A. Rozier’

  [Edits from transcript compiled and corrected by E.P. Rozier]

  There is plenty our mother won’t talk about, Emile. According to La Duchesse it does us all no good, this dredging up of what’s been said and done. She says if it is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, then we shall all be blind with bleeding gums. She has a point, truly I see it well, but how can she forgive me?

  She is a rare one, a rare and special case. You know what she did in the days before the Germans came? She put the whole of our house in order like never before. She cleaned the place from top to bottom and back again, she beat the carpets and darned our socks. Everything was washed and swept, scrubbed and pressed, and then she curled her hair.