The Book of Lies (21 page)

‘Well, I was,' I replied.

Michael made a regrettably pig-like snorting noise and shook his head.

‘Donnie-Donnie-Donnie.
You naughty boy!
'

I think Michael must've misunderstood to find it all so funny.

I hate being laughed at. I really do. Nic laughed in just that same way, like she knew some joke I didn't.

She called me a ‘Frigid-Little-Freak'. She spat the words out so they stuck on my face and then she grabbed my arm and dug in her nails.

‘Donnie's not interested in you, so why don't you just get out.'

I pulled her away from the sofa and we had a little tussle, and she slammed into some china dogs on a sideboard. Donnie went hysterical.

‘No! Not the Wally Dogs!'

He stared at me with blazing eyes and I felt so confused I went running out of there. I ran and I ran (and I ran) but once I was back home I knew I couldn't run any more. There was nowhere left to run to. I couldn't go forward and I couldn't go back. Nic had ruined everything for me, and she'd ruined me. I felt so dirty. I stared at my hands and wondered if they were capable of killing. Then I imagined how. I punched my bedroom door and kicked the skirting board. I wished I'd killed her already. It was the beginning of the end. Yes, Sir-eee. It was WAR.

19
th December
1965

Tape:
3
(B side) ‘The testimony of C.A. Rozier'
[Transcribed by E.P. Rozier]

War is not a means but an end. It makes violence respectable and makes sadists look like heroes. Them Nazis had sadists aplenty, Emile. I've still got the scars from that first beating they gave me, and that was just the start. I was locked in a little room, all alone, and that made me proper anxious. Then I was led down this corridor and taken into what looked like an office with a wide, wooden desk. There were three bad-looking blokes sitting behind it. I'd not seen them before – the ring-leader was named Wessel, but known to many as the Weasel.
⁵⁵

He tapped his finger on the desk.

‘So,' he said, ‘should we shoot you now or let you rot in prison?'

I felt sick in my throat.

The Weasel laughed like a typical German, thinking he knew better than me. He got up from his desk and came round to stand in front of me. I took the biggest gulp of air as he stared downwards. He had big, popping eyes so I knew he was a crazy one. Quick as you like, he slapped me. I thought he'd used a bit of leather and not a human hand at all.

‘We know all about your father's secret activities, he has given us a full confession. He was easy.'

‘What do you take me for?' I replied. ‘If he was that easy why are you questioning me?'

Vère dja, Emile, the Weasel was a proper Nazi – all pent-up to be away from active fighting on the Front, spoiling for a good scrap right here with little me. He went on and on.

‘We have our sources. Very serious allegations have been made,' he said.

‘Rubbish!' I replied.

‘Your own people have turned on you, my boy.'

Dju me pardaon!
That sent a chill like a dagger through my heart. I wondered if he meant Ray or J-P.

‘I know nothing and I'm saying nothing.'

The blood was pumping fast.

The Weasel hovered horribly close to my ear.

‘A pig about to have its throat cut squeals, Charlie. Will you not squeal?'

Those were his very words, I swear. Then he grabbed me round the neck and pushed my face into the desk. For a second I couldn't breathe. You tell me that he bleated like a lamb when the British military got hold of him after the War. I'm glad for that. I'm glad he got a taste of his own medicine. Quaï maonstre qu'il étaï!

I don't know where I got my strength from but I held it together. When I did finally start talking I didn't tell him what he wanted to hear. By then I was fighting back all right. I told them they were wrong and that Pop was a more honest and truthful man than the whole Kraut species put together.

The Weasel shakes his head.

‘You are a good tale-teller, but do you expect me to believe you are working alone? What were you going to do with the information you had gathered?
Swim
to the mainland?'

I wouldn't answer him so he got his henchmen to pull me to my feet. Seconds later I felt a sharp pain in my crotch. Those swine knew how to hurt you, that's for sure. They talked about a ‘secret army' and I laughed like the village idiot. I focused on different corners of the room, pretending not to understand. They repeated the same stuff over and over, then I decided to turn the tables and started asking questions back.

‘Who sold us out and how much did you pay them? Did they want food or did you give them blood money?'

We went round and round in circles, like a game of cat and mouse, and the only thing that sticks in my head is the Weasel saying I should choose my friends more carefully. Did he say it so plainly? I reckon he did.

I told him I had no friends.

‘And what about your father? Who are his friends?'

‘He has lost them, thanks to his work,' I replied. ‘My father's only friends are Germans now.'

The Weasel snorted like the pig he was.

‘And I presume that is the same for your mother.'

I would have answered with my fists if he'd let me.

I've since met a good many army types so I know what it can do to a man. In my own opinion, the army attracts the very dustbin of society, people who need a uniform to hide behind and the Germans have that sort in abundance.

I don't remember the interrogation ending, only that I spat out blood and a tooth. But I didn't stop asking who it was who'd sold us out. Reckon that was the only thing I clung to.

‘There must be someone with a grudge,' I said. ‘Father has co-operated with your lot up until now. Unteroffizier Vern will vouch for that. Perhaps it has made some locals bitter.'

Wessel nodded and smiled his sadist's smile.

‘And who might those locals be?'

Si l'bouan Dju I'l pllais! Ray's name was on the tip of my tongue. After all, I was only human. But I never uttered it. Do unto your neighbour as you would have done unto you is what I was taught, so I kept my trap shut. If I had my time again I'd do it different, mind, and I wouldn't think twice about our supposed bond of trust. I should've pulled old Ray Le Poidevoin down with me. But back then it was all a fog, what the Krauts claimed to know.

What else can I tell you, Emile
?
The whole day must've passed. By night-time they'd done their worst on me and I was left alone in a cell with only a tin can to pee in. One eye was swollen shut and my lips were puffed up like pigs' bladders. Even though I was worried for Pop, I was so tired I had to sleep. Hours passed and the next thing I know it was morning time – the morning of
11
th December. It was when a young officer came in. I didn't know him and thought I was being carted off somewhere else. I started kicking but my body was so stiff! I was taken back down the long corridor and into another room. I found old Hubert waiting. There wasn't a scratch on him, and of course I was glad he'd missed out on a beating, only I had to wonder what he'd said to get off so lightly.

The officer in charge signed us off in a book and said that we were going to be released. We had to show ourselves at the Girls' College next week, and after that we'd be formally charged and seen by the Military Court. I was chuffed they were letting us go free, but Pop's face brought me back down to earth.

‘It's because the prison is full,' he sighed. ‘We'll be sent to the camps.'

I looked about but I didn't see anything. Honestly and truthfully, Emile, the whole world of Guernsey vanished in that instant. It was as if we were taking part in a film and the scenery was falling away. Mon Dju, I thought, is this the ending credits? I stumbled forward and, blinded by the light, I went straight into a woman. She was taller than me, with a wide, hard face and eyes that glinted in the morning light.

‘You there.' She looked past me and pointed to the officer. ‘Where is my son? What have you done with him? I know you've got him. Tu n' peut pas me trompai!'

The officer told her to calm down but she wasn't having any of it.

‘Bouger-dé! What have you done with him? Where is he? I want to know what you've got him for.'

I looked into her dark eyes and knew her name before she spoke it:

‘I'm Florence Margaret Le Poidevoin of Les Capelles, I am the mother of Raymond Le Poidevoin, and I want to see him now!'

I grabbed Pop's arm to steady myself. There we stood, on the steps of a place they'd called Paradis, not yet dead but surely damned.

19TH DECEMBER 1985
,
7
p.m.

[In the kitchen, having eaten ten fun-size Mars Bars. No idea why they are ‘fun' since they're so small you have no ‘fun' eating just one, but then you eat ten and feel shit.]

I felt terrible after Nic and I had that fight at Donnie's. Everything was falling apart and I didn't know how to stop it. The rest of the weekend passed in a blur. I went round and round in circles (in my head), and I really wanted to talk to Nic about it. I called her up on Saturday night and even cycled round to Les Paradis on the Sunday morning, but nobody answered or came to the door. I had to wait until school on Monday for our Mexican standoff.

This time, though, I was ready for her. I had all my arguments written down in note form and carefully rehearsed. There was no way I was going to be called nasty names in front of the whole class. Oh no. I was in school early and waiting for Nic, smiling fakely at everyone, and I tried not to bristle when she came in with Vicky of all people. They were laughing so loudly, like they were having a good joke about something/someone. I wanted to tell them to shut up but I knew better, stayed calm and said nothing. Then everyone went quiet for Mrs Carey, who announced that she was standing in for Mr McCracken, who was stranded at Gatwick because of fog. Mrs Carey is our French teacher and the daughter of a slave worker who bought his freedom from the Nazis. He did this by helping them burn the corpses of his comrades. It's an unbelievably nasty story and Mum was very shocked when Dad told her at a parents' evening.
⁵⁶
She also thought it was rubbish since Carey is an ancient Guernsey name, but Dad pointed out that women change their name when they marry, and wasn't that convenient.

But let's get back to roll call: Mrs Carey was working her way down the register and when she called out my name I shouted ‘Yes'. I was ready for a catty comment from Nic or Lisa, but nothing happened, and when I looked around everyone was staring into space or stacking up their books. The bell went and we filed out for the first lesson and I was worried someone might trip me up, so I stayed back to let everybody go ahead. Nic filed past without looking my way. I was surprised and then annoyed. Vicky gave me a nudge and asked me what was wrong.

I eyed her carefully. ‘What were you talking to Nic about?'

She shrugged and said nothing.

I didn't believe her.

‘Whatever she says isn't true.'

Vicky frowned. ‘Like what?'

I glared at the doorway.

‘If she's got anything to say to me she should say it to my face.'

But she didn't. Nic ignored me brilliantly. All day. It was the last thing I expected. I tried to convince myself that being ignored was better than being shouted at (cf. Past History ref. Dad) but it didn't feel right. I'd wanted shouting and screaming and when I didn't get it I felt cheated. Nic was pretending I didn't exist. She made me feel like nothing. No. She made me feel like less than nothing (which is quite impressive).

The only thing I was glad about was the fact that nobody else knew what had happened. Nic had obviously been too embarrassed to tell people. Phew (I thought). But still, she carried on ignoring me the next day, and the next. I tried to talk to her but she'd just turn her back on me, and I didn't want to make it look too obvious. Eventually I gave up and wrote her a long and detailed letter. I said we'd all been very drunk and that we were both a bit to blame. Perhaps that was my big mistake. No one likes being blamed. After Liberation there was a lot of talk about justice/revenge and who'd done what to who, but in the end that's all it was. A few slutty women got chased and threatened, but they didn't get their heads shaved/chopped off vis-à-vis the French. Dad said if you live on a small island you can't get back at each other, you have to get along. He also pointed out that Guernsey has too many glass houses for folk to go round throwing stones.

I was excellently eloquent in my letter to Nic. I tried to smooth things over and say it was a silly mistake. Then I also got quite emotional and said I wanted to die. I begged her to stop ignoring me, etc. Howsoever and forthwith, none of the above matters because Nic never even bothered to read it. When I went to hand it to her she batted it back and made a tight fist.

‘Come on,' I begged, ‘I'm trying to say sorry!'

She wouldn't even look at me.

The Bitch.

That's how it was the next week as well, right up until the end of term. Everyone noticed and lapped it up as per fat cats and Guernsey cream. Nic surrounded herself with Lisa and Shelley and Isabelle and even Vicky, and I was ignored and shut out in the cold. I tried to pretend not to care and suffered in silence with bells-on dignity. But it was like I didn't exist. It was like I was dead.

When my uncle was shipped back to Guernsey after the War he wasn't given much of a welcome. When they saw how pale and ill he looked, they got scared. Even his own mother – my grandma – didn't know how to act. More Guernsey people than you'd guess were put in prisons and camps by the Germans. A lot of them didn't survive but Uncle Charlie did because he was young and fit, although he wasn't especially fit after three years' hard labour. The Nazis had starved and beaten him, and put him to work in a quarry, making him dig with his bare hands. You'd have thought, after what he'd been through, his friends and neighbours would've been sympathetic, and cooked him a proper meal. But people said he'd been very foolish for causing so much upset, and it was his word against theirs so he never stood a chance.