‘Point taken,’ he said.
‘How unsuitable?’ Lucy queried as they moved on to the next display.
He thought for a moment. ‘Just women who weren’t for me. But like you and Simon—’ Lucy thumped him playfully at the mention of the estate agent ‘—sometimes you have to spend time in someone’s company, as friends for a bit, before you realise it’s not worth your time any longer.’
She nodded as he moved on and then … wait … what did that mean? Was he talking about her? Was she not worth dating? Was he assessing if she was? Or were they genuinely just becoming friends? Lucy pondered this as they walked round the museum.
‘Look at this,’ he said after a while.
He was pointing to a small display of framed newspapers, old and yellowing, the edges crumbling and some of the centres frayed in horizontal lines where they’d been folded over, presumably for decades, and unfolded again for the purpose of framing here. But instead of looking at theStarorEvening Press, the island’s two main newspapers, they were looking at copies of something calledGUNS. Will read out the blurb on the information sheet, stuck underneath the frames.
‘“Guernsey’s Underground News Service” was created in secret retaliation to the German order in June 1942 confiscating all radios. Although many Islanders secretly hid some radio sets, if the Germans discovered these, the punishment was severe – imprisonment in mainland occupied Europe.GUNS was typed up and printed at theStarnewspaper, as well as in other locations. Its owner, Charles Machon, recruited a number of Islanders to help him at different times and in different roles, including listening and transcribing news reports in shorthand and distribution of the newspaper in secret around the island. After an inside informer betrayed them, those involved with GUNS were arrested and deported to Nazi prisons.’
The article went on to list those involved and the locations overseas where some had died.
It sobered Lucy. A small act of defiance that the Nazis took very badly, so badly that they deported many, leading to their deaths.
‘An informer,’ Will mused but said nothing further.
‘How awful,’ Lucy said quietly.
‘What possesses people to inform on each other, do you think?’ he asked.
‘Lots of things, I suppose.’
‘Islander against Islander.’ Will grimaced. ‘At a time of war, when it should have been Islander against Nazi. It’s the wrong way round. I just can’t get my head around this.’
‘Sadly it was all too common,’ Lucy admitted, gesturing to the wall on the other side of the museum where a range of letters had been displayed. The wall was covered in copies of letters.
‘Don’t tell me they’re all letters from Islanders informing on each other to the Nazis?’
Lucy had glimpsed the wall when she’d entered the room and now she moved over to take a closer look. It was one of the most unpleasant displays in the museum. ‘One of our island’s least patriotic moments. How petty grievances can be played out like this.’
‘Petty grievances?’ Will asked.
Lucy nodded. ‘Let’s pretend five years ago you moved your fence ten inches over my garden. We’ve argued, you’ve refused toput it back and I’ve not got enough money to go to a solicitor to fight for my bit of garden back. How do I get my own back?Voilà,’ she said, gesturing to the wall.
‘I’ve just gone cold,’ Will said, looking at the wall. ‘Do you think …?’ he started and then stopped.
‘What?’ Lucy asked.
‘It now seems very obvious what that bundle was we translated.’
Lucy nodded as realisation dawned. ‘It does, doesn’t it. Someone was translating the news, as we thought, and now we know why.’
‘For the secret newspaper,’ Will said. ‘Brave.’
‘Do you think they were deported? Is that why the bundle ends in ’43?’
‘It says the newspaper ran until they were exposed in early ’44.’
Lucy was none the wiser in that case. There must have been another reason why the news reports inside the wardrobe at Deux Tourelles stopped in 1943.
‘Maybe they gave up, decided it was too risky. It’s a long time to defy the Nazis and not get cold feet eventually,’ Will volunteered.
Lucy nodded, unsure, but deciding to stick a pin in that particular line of questioning for now. She looked closely at the horrific letters on the wall. It was clear that Islanders who were informing on each other had no idea who to address their hateful mail to. Some were addressed to the Geheime Feldpolizei, the secret police, at Grange Lodge. Some were, more chillingly, addressed directly to the Gestapo and some more generally labelled, ‘For the attention of the Nazis’.
‘This is disgusting,’ Will said. ‘I had no idea about any of this.’
