The Book of Lies (6 page)

Constable Priaulx was still hovering in the doorway.

‘You all right, sweetheart? Is there anything else?'

There was plenty as per always, but I shook my head and went back to the sitting room. I was staring at my photos when Mum came in and found me.

‘
What
was all that about?'

I said I thought it was obvious.

‘I don't mean about Nicolette. Why did you have to mention the last time he was here?'

I examined her more closely whilst sucking out the blood from a newly torn fingernail (a disgusting habit, I know).

‘I didn't get a chance to say anything then, either.'

Mum sat down beside me. ‘I was trying to help, and please don't do that.'

I took my finger out of my mouth and stared at her silently, hoping I looked like a psychopath from one of her crime thrillers stacked up in the hall.

‘I didn't mean to talk over you,' she said. ‘Come on, I thought we were over all this. I thought this was a clean slate.'

‘It is,' I replied. ‘It's fine.'

She pulled herself up and headed for the door, then suddenly turned back around. ‘You'd tell me, though, if there was anything, wouldn't you?'

I smiled faintly (but still psychopathically).

‘Of course.'

Did she know I was lying? I can't be sure. It's funny how things have changed between us, and are changing still. Before Dad died I had her full attention and I was always pouring out my worries to her. I'd wait until it was officially bedtime and then insist we discuss The Meaning of Life or The End of The World, and she'd listen carefully and pretend to be bothered even if she wasn't. But after Dad died she stopped coming into my bedroom and I was afraid to ask her anything. I still had loads of questions, though, and they kept multiplying. Why is it that the most important questions are the ones you ask too late?

Property of Emile Philippe Rozier

The Editor

Guernsey Evening Press

23
South Esplanade

St Peter Port

Guernsey

[undated draft]

Sir –

I am writing to you with regard to the article ‘The Unanswered Questions of the Nazi Occupation', which appeared in last week's Saturday supplement. As the owner and editor of The Patois Press, a publishing house dedicated to the documentation of recent island History, I have written to your newspaper innumerable times, calling for an inquiry into the ‘closed' Occupation files. I was surprised last week's article made no mention of my work. Perhaps your reporter was the victim of Selective Memory Loss, a condition widely noted in the wake of the Occupation?

Let me remind you, Sir, my own attempts to compile a definitive and detailed history of the German Occupation have floundered due to pressure from the UK government and our local States deputies. I come under criticism from these same quarters because my books are apparently too reliant on informal and ‘idiosyncratic' sources, but given all the red tape what choice do I have? I readily accept that one person's point of view can differ wildly from another's, but this only makes it more vital that the official files relating to the Geheimfeld polizei are made public.

The official line is that the release of ‘highly sensitive' archival materials would cause embarrassment to certain families in the Channel Islands, but surely it is time for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth to replace the gossip and hearsay. Once we know all the facts we will be better equipped to counter the many allegations that have been brought against us, and I am speaking from personal experience, as someone whose own family name has been dragged through the mud on more than one occasion. My father, Hubert Wilfred Rozier, was shot dead by the Germans whilst allegedly ‘trying to escape', my brother, Charles André Rozier, was then arrested and tortured by the Nazis at the notorious prison of Paradis before being deported to a German concentration camp, where he remained for the rest of the War.

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
,
2
nd 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 Village
¹⁹
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.'

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.