Discourse and Defiance Under Nazi Occupation: Guernsey, Channel Islands, 1940-1945 (12 page)

In August 1942, Knackfuss detailed that any instances of espionage, sabotage, or high treason would result in the death penalty, and he particularly singled out “attacks against communications” as worthy of the ultimate penalty. Therefore, a person performing a common Island action, such as looking out to sea with binoculars,
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might be open to the death penalty
should the action occur at the same time as the cutting of a local telephone line. Further, Knackfuss declared, “Henceforth I reserve to myself the right to nominate certain members of any Parish who will be liable to the Death Penalty.” Although never utilized, this threat of hostage taking and execution considerably upped the ante, making the violation of minor orders a potential threat to the entire community.
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Despite the possible consequences, Guernseymen did not react to these threats in a uniform fashion. Some developed a policy of caution and the ability to self-censor, but many others took a scofflaw approach. They handled the ridiculous slew of orders by judiciously choosing to violate a certain number of minor ones that imposed on day-to-day life. They then attempted to skirt any trouble through a combination of bluff and brass, whether dealing with the German soldiers or with the Feldgendarmerie, the German police. Thus, the prisons became overstuffed with those caught violating orders—the true cost of these brief prison sentences, some served in Guernsey and some in France, only becoming apparent in 1943.

BILLETING AND EVICTIONS

Early in the Occupation, the Germans took over houses, particularly large ones that belonged to evacuees from the Island. They claimed that anyone who left the Island prior to the German arrival was an official enemy, and they treated the houses, furniture, and personal items left behind as spoils of war.
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Thus, they moved furniture from house to house and generally destroyed their accommodations, leaving them filthy and often stripping them of fixtures, wiring, and any other item that they considered valuable. In addition to occupying residences abandoned by evacuees, the Germans used billeting as an early method of housing, particularly for officers and civil servants.

Jack Sauvary had two empty bedrooms in his house that drew the attention of the billeting officers.
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The New Road was particularly valued at that time, and Jack's first officer moved in on October 8, 1941; his batman appears to have been housed elsewhere. Jack's “No. 1 Officer” made himself much at home, requesting the good mahogany table, which Jack relinquished with orders that a tablecloth be used, and dishes. He then brought in a “No. 2 Officer” to spend the night in the adjoining room, “borrowing” (really requisitioning) Jack's bicycle for the evening.

Having a stranger in the house, one who was called on by his batman before six o'clock in the morning, took some getting used to. This was especially true because the Germans felt no need to inform Jack of their movements. Jack's officer came on Wednesday, and on Sunday morning, October 12, he rose early and left for the day, never to return. Jack left the house unlocked for several days but never saw the officer again, deciding that he must have left the Island with a number of other men on the 14th. By the end of the month, the billeting officers were back with news that Jack needed to house a civil servant and a “lady typist” (who ended up staying elsewhere), also providing them with a room in which to work. When Jack met the civil servant that he would come to call “my German” a few days later, the man “clicked his boots, gave me such a salute, and shook hands,” a display of politeness that, under the forced circumstances, Jack seemed to find amusing.
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For all of the disruption of having a civil servant sleep upstairs and set up shop in his dining room, Jack knew that he was getting off easy. By the following spring, the card that
was required to be affixed to the door (
THIS HOUSE OCCUPIED
) now had to be replaced with a new form detailing any rooms that were still empty. This allowed anyone passing by to “shop” for billeting accommodations simply by reading the form on the door. Jack feared that he soon could have a full house, but considered it far superior to being turned out entirely, a fate that was swiftly descending on many in Guernsey.
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The worst aspects to billeting appeared to be the lack of privacy, the destruction of property, and the drunken parties that the Germans held into the wee small hours. Jack's German (Erwin) proved to be a friendly, if demanding housemate; his tendency to upset the house with abrupt comings and goings at all hours was somewhat balanced by his gifts of British tobacco bought in Holland as tokens of apology and politeness.

Sunday, July 5, 1942, proved just what an imposition a young German soldier could be on his reluctant Guernsey “host.” Erwin, whom Jack occasionally called “The Boss,” turned up with a joint of meat, some salt, and bread. Requesting that the joint be cooked, Erwin invited a few civilians, a soldier, and an officer to a sit-down meal that evening. They also brought a barrel of beer, which they attached to two of Jack's stools and set up in the garden, bringing in chocolate and cigarettes for, they said, five people. By the time Jack was back from church, there were twelve. Fueled by bottles of champagne, they danced to wireless music until dark, and then took the beer into the drawing room. By one o'clock, they decided they were hungry and had Jack slice up the remainder of the bread, which they topped with their tomatoes and all of Jack's. They stayed up all night, as did Jack rather than “leaving them the run of the house.” The house and garden were littered with broken glass from champagne bottles and some of Jack's glasses, the carpet was ruined (they claimed that they would get Jack a new one, though he knew “that's as far as it will go”), and the neighbors had as little sleep as Jack.
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This type of impromptu “ball” was the lot of many of those billeting Germans against their will, their houseguests viewing their “hosts” as little more than servants. Rev. Ord told of a chat one sunny spring day with his neighbor, forced to billet four officers and batmen, who exclaimed heatedly, “I wish all Germans was in ‘ell, Sir! That mayn't be the sort of language to use to a Reverend Gentleman like yourself,
BUT IT
'
S FROM THE HEART ALL THE SAME
!” Ord well understood his neighbor's feelings, for his house was being slowly ruined by German drunken binges, where broken bottles and wine-stained furniture littered a formerly beautiful home. As Ord sympathetically put it, “The Archangel Gabriel would himself use unbiblical language were his celestial abode similarly treated.”
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Worse was to follow. In October 1942, Bert Williams announced that the Germans were “turning people out of their houses wholesale,” wanting at that point to house the soldiers in zones rather than billeting them individually.
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Yet, this fall upheaval was the second wave of mass evictions, the first having taken place the previous year. In November 1941, Dorothy Higgs, for all her bravado about German orders, learned that the house where they lived, Alta Vista, was being taken, along with all the houses on the same hill. The Higgses learned through the owner of Alta Vista that they could share a previously abandoned bungalow with caretakers who had been staying there. They gratefully accepted the offer of three small rooms, only to have the caretakers get a chance at another house, leaving the Higgses the entire “White Cottage” to themselves. And this is where Dorothy Higgs's incredible luck and optimistic attitude really came into play. Although small, the White Cottage had a lovely view, a large garden, and trees near the house; it was, in fact, Dorothy wrote, “so lovely—just what I have always dreamed of having.” It also would, as
we will see later, place Dorothy in the perfect location to ride out the Occupation using her wits and creativity.
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Rev. Ord heard account after account of the shabby treatment of evicted families. Houses were chosen, and mere minutes later soldiers appeared in lorries, loading up the furniture for their own taking while the owners stood helplessly by. Generally, the house owners only had ten minutes to fill a suitcase and leave. And all of this, Ord pointed out, occurred in the miserable weather of fall. Hard enough to be turned out on a beautiful day, but “in this drenching, chilly downpour, it is terrible.”
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Even those dangerously ill “encounter the same callousness” and were thrown out in the cold.
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Yet, treatment was not equal for those whose houses were taken. The German officers, always hypersensitive to power and rank, seemed to identify with those they perceived as having prestige and culture. Winifred Harvey knew that it would only be a matter of time before covetous German eyes fell upon her beautiful estate of Newlands. First, by spring of 1941 she heard of many large homes being taken: Saumarez Lodge, Springfield—all were falling like dominoes, and seizure was coming her way.
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The Germans actually came for the house in late October, on a day when the house was at its loveliest, “a glorious sunny morning, flowers about, everything spick and span.” They wanted the house for the general, so Winnie knew that there was no point in resisting. Unlike others who had been evicted, Winnie was offered the opportunity to stay, actually billeting in her own home, where the general would take over the entire ground floor and most of the first as well. Winnie asked instead for a week to move out and was granted this extra time.

In fact, she had the luxury of negotiating with Captain Seelig what she could take and what needed to be left in the house. She requested her piano, for music “is a great comfort in these days.” “Certainly,” replied the captain. She asked for and received her desk and grandfather clock. The captain offered her the drawing room carpet: “It is a shame for boots…take it, Madam.” He balked at giving her the curtains, and she thought it best not to press for them, although she took the hall drapes. Then it came down to linens and her one table service that had not been sent away before the Occupation; “Let us share it,” said the captain. When Winnie later related this part of the exchange to the Hartley-Jacksons, “they all roared with laughter and said it was as good as a proposal.”
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Thus, Winnie moved to 2 Grange Terrace, taking the ground and first floors, while her landlord Mr. Jehan took the floor above. Feeble and blind Mrs. Clayton was installed in a nursing home, much to Winnie's initial relief, but only three weeks later, the soft-hearted Winnie brought her to live at Grange Terrace.
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Undoubtedly, money and standing was part of the game of bluster, bluff, and negotiation; it had nothing to do with kindness and respect, as was clear in the Germans' treatment of Rev. K. C. McCartney in his eviction from the St. Andrew's rectory. Ken Lewis was particularly incensed, noting that because the reverend was blind, “he knew every crick and corner of his own home and moving to a new home would seriously restrict his movements.” A formal appeal was made on the behalf of Rev. McCartney, but “with the callousness of the Germans they refused to entertain any such idea and he was forced to move.”
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German inconsistency and contempt for weakness combined to distribute hardship unevenly, and it fell mainly on those least able to cope.

The older and frailer the Islander, the more devastating the forced exile from their homes. Arthur Mauger was given three days (better than most) to pack up everything and evacuate his home. Although he resignedly wrote that “it's hard luck after nearly 60 yrs residence there,” the true impact can be gauged by a glance at his diary pages. His beautiful flowing script
became tremulous, so shaky that it is difficult to read. It is the worst on the actual moving day, returning to normal over the following days, time that he spent weeding the yard and becoming accustomed to his new surroundings. The emotional impact of this uprooting on an eighty-two-year-old man was undoubtedly profound.
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Jack Sauvary, too, was swept out of his home of twenty-eight years in the New Road during the round of evictions in the fall of 1942. The entire New Road on his side of the street was seized, and he had only days to pack up and clear out. With his usual humor, Jack recounted that he had packed, repacked, and moved in his dreams every time he took a nap during that trying time. Ultimately, he moved in with Mrs. Rowe, who gave him a comfortable bedroom and a place to keep his rabbits in the backyard. The eternal optimist, Jack talked about Mrs. Rowe as being “a brick in every way” and lauded the help of his friends in the move: “So, no regrets. Amen!”
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Some Guernsey residents never managed to adjust to these changes. Elizabeth Doig had two officers and two soldiers installed in the flat above her own and found that the tramping on the floor above went on till the “wee awa' ‘ours,” as she put it. Shortly after that time, her brother John was evicted from his home and took up residence with his family at the Birnaue Court Hotel. Elizabeth spent many of her nights with them.
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Thus, she was pleased when the entire family decided to quit the hotel for a house, and she joined them in the move, relinquishing her flat.
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She moved once again on July 27 to stay with a woman in St. Martin, where she would be closer to town. She wrote that she regretted parting from her “dear brother,” but then described her new living conditions with the phrase “atmosphere much better hope to enjoy being there.” It is not a deep reading to see in this some possible friction with the rest of the family (perhaps John's wife and daughter), a distinct possibility as she was the widowed relative attaching herself to the rest of the family.