Allen Dale arrived to find the Alderney docks in a fit of chaos, of last second spit-and-polish shine jobs, sweep-the-dirt-under-the-rug-the-lady-of-the-house-is-coming-down-the-corridor activity. He had no way of knowing it was already the second time today these measures had been enacted.
The Kommandant was re-approaching the docks (having landed at them and disembarked from them less than forty-five minutes ago), with Gisbonnhoffer and Diefortner in tow.
Instantly, Allen popped himself behind a very high coil of rope and several stacked wooden crates.
His best hope for the day, he thought, was to make out as though he had been on the island all along, looking for the Kommandant, and narrowly missing meeting up with him. He did not immediately recall that Vaiser had been planning to be away most of the morning, that he had been off to Jersey the late evening prior. No, Allen's mind, quick as it was, agile as it could be in a pinch, was rather more morosely occupied.
Blimey, but he had sped to Blind La Salle's farm, fire on his heels. Wings would have been better, but he knew there was nothing angelic in his current mission or message. He had thrown aside every precaution the unit had devised for approaching the farm, every provision they had discussed until blue in the face of what the order of events ought to be to ensure the safety of oneself, approaching, and others, possibly residing for the moment, on the farm. Simply, he ran. Across muddy, uncleared fields, across late-autumnal pastures and grazing lands, vaulting over rock walls and the occasional inner-barnyard fencing of tenements encountered on the way. He ran like a man blind, his path cleared for him, his way made straight by some higher power. He saw nothing, noted nothing. He was not fully conscious, even, of the direction in which he was headed. He could only hear, in each footfall, each intake of breath; "Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast...Christ save us all from a death like this...Christ save us all from a death like this..."
It was as though his rapid-with-exertion heart beat to the metre of the poem. Odd, that, since before Mitch he had not known, not understood, even, that a poem had an internal metre, like the rhythm of a song.
Those long days (or were they nights? He could not see to have said) following the 'Saintly Six' plane crash, his eyesight gone from him due to the fumes carried on the flames, fearing himself lost, forever condemned to blackness. No longer any hope of ever earning his keep, or even, standing beside his fellows; Robin, John, Royston, Wills...Mitch.
The others were injured, too, in varying degrees of critical. Somehow he had come to be placed by Mitch in their ward. Mitch, who had rushed in after Robin to pull him out before the fire erupted. Mitch, who was the least hurt of all until that moment, and then swiftly became the worst hurt.
Mitch, whom they, to a man, thought would go to his eternal reward, but who somehow managed to carry on, and even improve. Mitch, who spoke...to Blind Allen. To him, at him, about him, of anything, everything; unfiltered, uncensored...unbidden.
Mitch. "Christ save us all from a death like this..." The lines of the poem came to him in Mitch's voice, Mitch, who had, at Blind Allen's desire, re-told and re-told the Hesperus to him to the point that he could recite it himself.
Mitch, who had maybe not saved his life, but had (while at the same time seriously putting a dent in it) saved his sanity. Saved him from depression. Refused to let him wallow in despair and hopelessness. Mitch, convinced he would see again, even when Allen, his eyes and temples in thick bandages, was not.
He fell hard, coming in to La Salle's barnyard, having hurdled one fence too many. Quickly he picked himself up, tried to get his brain to function, his breath to equalize, so that he could speak. As he was doing this, here came Robin, from within the house.
"It's Mitch," Allen said, when Robin was but three paces away.
"What?" Robin asked.
"It's Mitch!"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"They've taken him. Gisbonnhoffer, Diefortner-an Underlieutenant. Taken him away to Alderney on the boat...with Marion. In their custody."
Robin's face clouded over. "You were there? They did not buy the story?"
Allen shrugged and shook his head simultaneously. "No one seemed particularly concerned about the story. Or interested in he or I, but at the last minute, Gisbonnhoffer snatched him up."
"You could do nothing?"
Allen knew Robin did not mean his words to take him to task, but the question stung as much as his inability to take action had. "Robin, I-" he brought his head up to make eye contact from where he had been hanging it as he spoke.
Robin's hand went to his shoulder. "I know, Allen, I know what he means. To each, and to all of us." His gaze was steady, and surprisingly clear. "Now get yourself cleaned-up inside, and off to work."
"Work?" His mind balked at the order. "But it's Mitch!"
"Yes," Robin's reply was a harsh use of the affirmative. "We have paid too dearly for the last sorry-excuse-for-a-plan I devised." Conviction spilled into his voice. "We must not risk Mitch's cover or ours similarly. The flier," he strained to do it, but got it out, "Mr. Carter, says he buried an officer's uniform from his escape near one of the sea caves. Perhaps it may come in useful, it is too early to tell. But we must have you at your post. You are our only link to Alderney, to the camps, and to any knowledge we might gain on where he has been taken, for how long, or how dire his situation might truly be."
The intense dread Allen had been holding back spilled forth out of his mouth like sick. "And for knowing if he breaks."
Robin did not chastise him for his lack of confidence in his fellow. "Everybody breaks, Allen. With our training, he will endure longer than most. And they have no idea, I am sure, whom they've managed to pinch. It is essential that his cover be maintained. It is, right now, all the protection he has." Robin paused, and removed his steadying hand from where it had been at gripping Allen's shoulder. "You were there when he was taken? You were seen speaking together?"
"Yes," Allen feared to confess what he assumed was a fatal slip-up in keeping things covert.
"Good," answered Robin, unexpectedly, nodding his approval. "Then if you encounter him again in your capacity as the Kommandant's driver, it will not seem irregular. You might even pull-off asking a question or two about him...as a neighborly gesture." He inhaled and stood straighter. "Now, Soldier, do as you're ordered: wash up, and get to work."
And so here Allen was, at work, if not in an active capacity, yet.
From the other side of the rope coil and crates he heard the Kommandant gruffly questioning Diefortner, but could not make out the words through the wood and lashings behind which he hid.
"And how was she brought here?"
"Supply ship, Sir. She has arrived under the care of a Reich Army matron, on loan from the mainland until the girl is safely delivered into your keeping."
Gisbonnhoffer cut in with an interested question. "And what is her name, Herr Kommandant, your daughter?"
"Ah, testing me Gisbonnhoffer?" Vaiser sneered, but with a degree of obvious glee. "I still remember mine." Vaiser took a step closer to the ship's gangplank and then seemed to have a change of heart. He spun on his heel and re-made for the direction of the Harbormaster's office. "Have them brought to the office," he commanded, his tone firm and decided. "I shall see them (and sort this) there." He continued on, muttering to himself, "I do not jump like a scalded dog for you, Adalgisa-no matter what your name or title, now. I am in charge here. This is my island. People come to me. To me!" He threw a blistering glance to the high coil of rope, spotting someone behind it. "DRIVER!" he shouted, for all to hear. "Fall in line, fall in line. No time for further discussion. Busy day, busy, busy, busy."
Allen Dale did swiftly as he was told, falling in line behind the two lieutenants, and obediently brought up the rear of their tactical retreat to the Harbormaster's office, his pace, as always, more lackadaisical, and less in-step with those in jackboots.
"You have forgotten about Lady Marion, Sir," Gisbonnhoffer had the misfortune to announce.
"No," Vaiser's answer was quick and clipped. He shared a significant glance with Underlieutenant Diefortner where they all stood just outside the office's main door. "No, I have not. You, Lieutenant, will have to bide your time for an introduction to my daughter. Back to Treeton Camp, assemble your report on the flier, on what you say are his current-unknown, but probably landing-in-England-whereabouts. No more kissy face, no more clumsy wooing on the job. She will still be here, doubtless, when you have a break in your workday. But now," he swept his hand as though he were sweeping a broom, "be gone."
Left without an option, other than disobeying a direct order, Geis went.
Vaiser turned to Allen. "Bring the car around. And wait." He turned his back to consult with Diefortner before entering the office.
Marion had stuffed the tablets Gisbonnhoffer had given her into the toe of the provided slippers. The last thing she should do, when left alone surrounded by so much German information at the Harbormaster's office, was to drug herself into a sleep, no matter how good letting her guard down and doing so might feel.
Regrettably, the office was incredibly tidy, and files were located in locked filing cabinets or similarly locked desk drawers. The bulk of the information laying about or posted on the walls had to do with the geography of the Islands, and the escape of Thomas Carter. On which she was already, thank you very much indeed, an expert.
It would be insensible for her to attempt to ransack the office, picking locks. Three sides of the long, rectangular building's second floor were glass windows, to enable an unobstructed view of the harbor and the work being done there. This also meant that anyone in the office risked being easily sighted, were they up to something untoward, such as ransacking and lock-picking.
Even so, she slowly rolled the medical screen several feet to the left to the smaller credenza (the larger one, she assumed, was used by the Kommandant (or Harbormaster), and might seem more out of place were it to be obscured by a medical screen), deciding what best might be done.
She did not get very far into her search when she spied Geis' name on some papers on the very top. There was a shipboard-transcribed cable, by the date, received recently, and what appeared to be the makings of a much-crossed-out handwritten reply-in Geis' hand. Both were in German.
"Beloved husband, noble and heroic father, we greet you with love at your birthday, your brave soldier Hans, your sweet princess Lili, and I, who pray hourly for your safety, long for your arms, and still cherish the distinction of being Frau Gisbonnhoffer, Your Greta."
She read it again, then studied what there was of the handwritten reply. Again, she read it, certain there was something wrong with her verb conjugation.
The handwritten reply, which appeared to have been only half-complete or abandoned did not say one word from what she could see telling this Greta woman that her cable had been received by the wrong Lieutenant Herr Geis Gisbonnhoffer, that there had been some mistake.
She read it again, as though the few words had more information to offer up, some redeeming use of idiom or missing umlaut that would invert their meaning, change the truth spelled out in front of her.
Allen found the car, tidied it up here and there, as usual, and brought it to the base of the wooden stairs by the Harbormaster's office. He needed to get in contact with Anya at the Treeton Camp, as soon as possible. Of the four camps, it made the most sense that Mitch would have been taken there, as Gisbonnhoffer was some version of its overseer.
While he was considering these matters, and attempting to further strategize information-gathering on the island, he noticed some activity at the waterfront. Two figures emerged from the large supply ship docked for unloading. What he wouldn't give to be set loose in there, in all the goods sent from mainland France for the Germans. That'd prove an early Christmas for everyone if he could manage it.
The two figures, plus two armed guards, were walking this way. Both were, surprisingly, female. The one, in Army uniform, was bulky, big-boned, and easy to identify as a matron (of what, he did not know). The other was a slender girl, perhaps eighteen, surely no more. Her long, dark brown hair was in a severe French braid falling well below her waist, and her clothes, though clearly of good quality, were of a design and color so modest and entirely unremarkable as to seem they were those of a religious Order. Her shoes had no height to their heels, under her woolen cape her blouse was buttoned to the neck. She wore no visible jewelry, and her gathered skirt was cut to a length just a whisper above her ankles. Any curves to her figure she may have possessed were a mystery, occluded from view by the just below waist-length capelet and the full, gathered skirt.
As she passed him, headed with the matron up the steep stairs to the second-story office above, he clicked his tongue lightly and winked at her, with a smile.
Surprisingly (for he had had her pegged for it) she did not color with a blush, but looked at him curiously, up and down, as if trying to ascertain what his position was here, this man with a chauffeur's non-military uniform, leaning on the side of the only automobile in sight-and a sharp-looking one at that.
The matron looked to him as though, had her crossing from France been milder, her duty less exhausting, less unpleasant, she might have reprimanded his impertinence toward her charge. She did not, only glanced to him and turned back toward her ascent.
Marion re-read the cable. She had the screen back to where it had originally been placed, now, and had the cable and the written reply's beginning in her hands, though she had entirely memorized them minutes ago.
She could say nothing. Nothing of this to Geis today. She would have to swallow what he had tried to cause her to do: to unknowingly consent to enter into unholy, unsacred wedlock-to unwittingly become some perverted version of a 'war wife' (she knew the term as well as 'Jerry-bag')-with a man already married, and father to children by his legal wife. Bigamy. Adultery. Fornication.
There was Mitch to consider. Geis had said he would release him. But, her mind stuttered, could a man who would-her hands shook with the papers that had exposed him-could he be trusted? His 'word', on any account? Certainly, it would seem apparent, not in his pledges or troths to her. (Or, it would seem, to his wife, Greta.)
Her thoughts were cut short. Men were walking up the wooden decking outside the door. She stuffed the cables into the pocket of the dress she wore, unable to take the time to fold them neatly, so that they would lay perfectly flat.
The door opened in. Vaiser and Diefortner were already in discussion, as though they had entirely forgotten she was housed there.
"I don't know, Underlieutenant, what to expect," Vaiser was ruminating. "She was eleven the last time I lay eyes on her. Simply, let us hope she has avoided her mother's tendency at certain weights toward an unflattering jowl."
Diefortner cleared his throat. "Lady Marion, Sir," he reminded him.
"Ah, yes, I see no reason why she may not join us at our little reunion. It's turning out to be quite the social day, isn't it? Pity we haven't any good nibbles on hand here, what? Pity. Come out, come out, Lady Marion," he called, as though they were at hide-and-seek. "I shall administer introductions as I see fit."
"I do not know why I am here!" The girl (she was nineteen, actually, breathing on twenty) almost stomped her foot in childlike outrage. "This is unjust!"
She stood beside the bulky matron who had escorted her from mainland France, while Vaiser had taken his place behind the largest desk, Diefortner at the smaller credenza, and Marion occupied a sofa off to the side and barely noted the goings-on in front of her at all, so hotly did the stolen papers burn within her pocket, and the circular thoughts they inspired about the plight of Mitch.
"Elerinne," Kommandant Vaiser addressed the girl, pretending at patience with her near-tantrum. "Sweet Child. You will let me do the talking just now. Your mother, Adalgisa, bless her, writes to say you have run away from your school twice. That you are intent on marrying a certain...Yanick?"
The girl, Eleri, went into near-hysterics. "I love him. We are meant to be together!"
Vaiser chose a calmer counterpoint to her histrionics. "And what would you say, if asked, is this Yanick's nationality? His ancestry?"
Her chin jutted out in instant defiance. Vaiser winced as her jowl became ever so slightly more pronounced.
Her eyes narrowed. "He is a Jew."
"Ah. And his political affiliation?"
Here, only pride. "He fights for the Resistance."
"May I," Vaiser kept his tone light, unaffected by her overt display of dislike and disrespect for him, for any who chose to oppose her. "Do you suppose, ask for further clarification? As: 'anti-Reich' is not quite specific enough to appease my ravenous curiosity where the blushing flower that is my daughter is concerned? Hmm?"
"He is a Communist."
"Yes." His tone flattened. "A Jewish Communist." Then, barely a mumble. "So your mother has written." He clasped his hands together in a loud clap. "How high you do set your sites! Please be informed: who you marry and when, will not be a decision you make. It will be made by your mother (possibly with the help of your step-father) and at my approval ONLY. We have made many decisions already for you in your life. Shall I list them? The decision your mother and I made to go ahead and bring you into this world instead of aborting you. The decision to place you in Ripley Convent's prestigious French school. The decision to have you remain there once your studies were finished until we found that you might prove of some use to us." He took a ragged inhale of breath for the next bit. "RUNNING AWAY TO MARRY A JEWISH COMMUNIST IS NOT OF ANY USE TO US!" He paused. "Would that I were in a better position here, I just might let you do it! Let them take you to a camp to starve and die with him! You little idiot fool!" He seethed, one eye narrowed as he looked at her, his mouth open, panting through his teeth like a predator.
Her entire demeanor continued to be at odds with the meek attire she wore. "I may as well be in a camp now," she baited him with. "I am guarded at all times by this cretin." Her eyes flashed on the matron in outrage. "I am a prisoner, all the same."
As Vaiser began again to speak, he now held even Marion's attention. Cold seemed to seep into the room, to have gathered about them all when they were not noticing, through poor seals on the windows and cracks in the wood of the main door. Everyone, even the matron, seemed to feel the blossoming chill. His voice was nearer a whisper than a murmur, its pace slow and informative. "Oh, no, my dear. Oh, very no. Do not think you have any idea what life is like inside a camp. I have four, here, at my command. Do not pretend you understand, or speak lightly of the experience of so much as a quarter-hour in such a place. For if you do not toe my line, if you do not please me, I may have you escorted beyond the barbwire with but a word. And you will quickly understand what future there is in this world for Jewish Communists...and their seditious wives." He smiled, and Marion herself thought that the exhale through his parted lips was likely, itself, frigid with cold.
Vaiser slapped his hands upon the desk's blotter, breaking the moment's spell. "Diefortner, we shall need a billet for Gruppenfeldmarschall Bachmeier's step-daughter. Fill out the ration request form that way, and even though the ungrateful little twit doesn't seem to wish to identify herself with the Fatherland, make it the ration request form for German nationals. Have the supplies readied."
The girl, Eleri, responded with a question containing a good helping of derision. "Have you no house, here?"
The Kommandant only smiled dismissively at her tone. "I live on this island, my little dumpling. You may trust, in the very best house. But this is a military installation. There is no civilian population, nor any provision for such. For all that you are a self-proclaimed Jew-lover, I'll not have you here to tempt my men away from their chores." He bent to the pad from which Marion had ripped the written-on page. "I say, Lady Marion," he asked, as cordially as ever, "spot me that pen, would you?" he indicated the one he wished for her to bring him.
Marion stood and crossed the room with the pen stand and inkwell, both her hands occupied in the task, setting them down where he could reach them.
"Ah!" he sang out, his hand to her hip pocket before she had seen his scheme. "Passing love letters with my Lieutenant, are you?" He unwrinkled the paper, and unfolded the cable. "What's this?" his eyes grew round as he looked up at her, "I am shocked! Appalled! Diefortner," he asked of the just-returned Underlieutenant, "had you any idea of this?"
"Sir?" Diefortner asked, his face curious, but blankly clueless.
"Lieutenant Gisbonnhoffer. Had you any idea he was married-with two children? I tell you I am shocked! Simply shocked!" Momentarily he inclined his head to Marion, concern for her well-being all over him. "La-dy Marion, surely you must wish to return home, to, oh, yes, that is unfortunate...to Herr Geis' billet on Guernsey. That lovely large house, with that generously-sized staff. Hmmm. Yeeees," he noisily shoved back the chair he was seated in. "I believe I have solved everyone's problems. I shall escort you home, immediately. My driver will come as well. And I will see Elerinne well-settled at Barnsdale with you." It was not a request for an invitation.
He indicated Diefortner, "see to the boat, have it packed with whatever she brought with her of her things. (I shall search them myself when we arrive.) Oversee the loading of the rations and what else you might feel is needed. We leave as soon as may be." He rolled his eyes heavenward. "At some point in this day, surely, I will be able to finally get to work!"
He could not know his driver, a story below, yet unaware that he was to be off to Guernsey by hour's end, was thinking the very same thought.
...TBC...
Author's Note: If you have not read the reviews page, you may have missed calmingbreez's *excellent* reccommendation of "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society", a novella about the time immediately following WWII, flashing back to Guernsey's Occupation.
I took her at her word and read it within the last two weeks. It is a charmingly unsarcastic and affecting easy read, and I highly suggest it to anyone with even a moderate interest in these events, or in unjaded, un-ironic contemporary fiction.
[Unlike my writing, its historical and geographical details have doubtless been meticulously fact-checked by professional fact-checkers.] It is supposedly available in many translations. Although, sad to say, as far as can be ascertained, not in Serquiaise.