The Book of Lies (22 page)

I never met Uncle Charlie because he died before I was born. He lived the rest of his life in a tiny cottage at Icart. For years he could never talk about the terrible things he'd been through. Dad said it was the same for a lot of locals who'd suffered under the Germans – they'd been through Hell once already and talking brought it back.

But Dad was obviously very determined to go through Hell as well, which is why he wrote all those letters, and why he campaigned for his (Un)Official Occupation Memorial, and published his pamphlets for next-to-no money. And which is why he had to drink himself unconscious all the time.

In History, alcohol was widely used as an anaesthetic. Boots the Chemist actually prescribed remaining stocks of brandy to old people during the Occupation, to ease their aches and pains. However, although drinking a little numbs you from feeling, drinking a lot makes you feel worse. The day we broke up for the summer holidays I took myself off to the Moorings with a half-bottle of whisky. I watched as the tide went out and waited to feel better about life/Nic, but soon I started to think about Dad/jumping. Mum won't talk about how much Dad drank, but I've often wondered if he was drunk when he dived off the Moorings and cut his hand on the rocks. He was always so careful: he'd check the timings of the tides in the
Press
, and even if he didn't, he'd judge the water level on the side of steps. So why did he dive in when the tide was so low? I've asked Mum over and over about it, and she's told me to leave it alone. She says Dad made one mistake and that's it. He was embarrassed, so he bandaged the hand himself and pretended it wasn't serious, and she took him at his word.

Of course Dad was wrong to be so proud. He should've known more than anyone that you can't ignore A GAPING WOUND, but for the first time ever he didn't make a fuss and blame someone else or write a letter. Perhaps he almost wanted it to happen. I don't understand it, I really don't. I think it's pretty clear that all this SUFFERING IN SILENCE is just a massive waste of time.

Property of Emile Philippe Rozier

The Editor

Guernsey Evening Press

23
South Esplanade

St Peter Port

Guernsey

~ WITHOUT PREJUDICE ~

RE: ‘Flight from Fortress Isle'

Dear Sir,

It has been some months since I first wrote to you regarding the forthcoming publication ‘Flight from Fortress Isle' by Raymond Le Poidevoin, but my letter remains unanswered and I find this silence greatly troubling. I am eager for us to meet at the earliest opportunity and discuss the matter, since I am aware that the book shall be based on a series of short articles first published in your newspaper in
1967
. At the time they were well-received and widely talked about, but please appreciate many years have now elapsed and serious errors and inconsistencies in Ray Le Poidevoin's account of events have subsequently come to light.

I am sure you would agree that inaccurate stories regarding our Occupation rob true accounts of their authenticity, and it is the responsibility of us all to ensure that misrepresentations are not perpetuated. My brother, Charles Rozier, was imprisoned and deported as a direct result of the same escape Ray Le Poidevoin has glorified. Charles endured three years of mental and physical torment at the hands of the Nazis, only to return to his island home and find himself perceived by many as ‘the guilty party'.

Only now, with his health deteriorating rapidly, has my brother made efforts to divulge to me his own version of events. He has not done so, I should stress, in an attempt to clear his name or to counter Ray Le Poidevoin's claims, but rather to set the record straight once and for all.

I hope we shall be able to meet and discuss the various points of departure and controversy vis-à-vis the Le Poidevoin account, but in brief I shall now enumerate key issues that I feel are in need of immediate clarification (and apology).

1
. In his first article dated
6
May
1957
Ray Le Poidevoin [hereafter R.L.P.] stated that it was Charlie Rozier who first broached the idea of escaping, and offered him his boat calling it ‘a ticket out of here'. My brother absolutely refutes this and insists that Ray had landed himself in trouble with the German authorities and needed to escape. Although Charlie had hidden the boat just before the Germans arrived in Guernsey, he had no clear plan for it until Ray began to pressure him.

2
. In a subsequent article dated
10
May
1957
R.L.P. asserted that, although my brother had initially intended to escape with his father, he radically altered these plans due to the latter's ill-health. I would like to state quite clearly and unequivocally that there is no evidence to suggest that Hubert Rozier knew about ‘Sarnia Chérie', or about Ray and Charlie's activities. Charlie never confided in his father. Furthermore, although it was suspected that Hubert had tuberculosis, there was no diagnosis. It was certainly not the reason the boys altered their escape plans.

3
. In an interview published in the
GEP
and the
Jersey
Tribune
on
23
rd and
25
th August
1957
R.L.P. suggested that my brother had most probably ‘tripped himself up with his own loose tongue', since Charlie was known to have a vivid imagination and had already spread a story about his father being a spy. Although there is a grain of truth in this last statement, it has been taken out of context. Charlie grew up quickly during the years
1940
to
1942
, and by the time of the proposed escape he had learned how to keep a secret. Such an accusation from R.L.P. seems grossly unfair, especially considering the comment three paragraphs later where R.L.P. deigns to thank his ‘little friend' for enduring hours of Nazi interrogations but still withholding any information regarding the boat.

To speak plainly, Charlie Rozier might have started the War as a ‘puny kid who told tall tales', but what he ultimately had to endure would have broken the spirit and will of any full-grown man. Despite repeated beatings he stayed loyal and true to both his friends and his relations.

The pain and suffering these articles caused my brother is inestimable but he remained silent out of respect to his mother. However, I am greatly vexed by what effect the publication of a new book would have on his fragile health. Whilst he is alive you have my assurance I will do everything in my power to ensure Ray Le Poidevoin's story is never printed
in
its current form.

Yours sincerely,

E.P. Rozier

Manager/Editor of The Patois Press

Sans Soucis

Village de Courtils

St Peter Port

20TH DECEMBER 1985
,
9
p.m.

[Sitting-room]

Dad was cremated, in case you ever wondered. So was Uncle Charlie. I don't like the idea of incineration so I've planned my funeral carefully.

I did it during my Long Summer of Torment. I'd spend hours in my bedroom imagining how my classmates would be devastated by the shocking news of my death, and would write poems in my memory. They'd bind them in an album to be read at my graveside but the rain would smudge the ink (because it would be an open-air service). There'd be a trillion different-coloured freesias on my antique mahogany coffin, and Vicky would probably faint from grief and fall into my grave. I was going to be buried in the Military Cemetery with trumpets and cannon-fire and Donnie leading the tributes. He'd have named a rose after me and would be holding this great, big wreath with the thorns digging into him, dripping blood. Then he'd put on a Miles Davis record and everyone would be amazed to find out that I liked jazz. After that we'd play Tears for Fears (‘Mad World') to symbolise my tragic waste of life, and then would come the Elaine Paige/Barbara Dickson classic ‘I Know Him so Well', just to make sure everyone cried. Nic would weep uncontrollably and maybe sing along and then tell Mum how sad she was that we'd not had a chance to make up. Mum would say amazing things about my wit and intelligence (which had been so unfairly overlooked).

Let me tell you, it was B.R.I.L.L.I.A.N.T, far better than my miserable reality, which involved leaving my bedroom every two days to mooch into Town and hover outside Etam, looking for but avoiding Nic and her cronies. I was now a vast size
14
and needed some new clothes, but the idea of facing Nic in a public place made me melt like ice cream. In the end I stayed indoors and watched repeats of
Dallas
, specifically the episode when Bobby Ewing is run over by a car.

Then I found out from Bridget Falla (the biggest mouth in the Sixth Form) that Nic had gone to France for the whole entire month of August. I was upset for all of five seconds, then came this tidal wave of relief. It was a temporary solution to my problem. I knew I wasn't totally off-the-hook but then I had a new daydream of how I could be: all Nic had to do was die. I imagined she'd fallen off the ferry to France, or been run over on a French motorway.
⁵⁷
I visualised her death in various excellent ways and picked out flowers for her funeral. Does that sound so awful? I suppose it was quite morbid, but I'd often imagined that Dad was going to die and then he did. So surely it could happen again, and to Nic.

Death was something to take my mind off the summer, which, unlike every other Guernsey summer since
1940
, was horribly hot. I don't like sunny weather one bit. This is because of my vast acreage of Persil-white skin, which has been known to reflect the sun and blind people. I could be a super-hero, only I burn and bruise easily, plus I'm too wobbly for Lycra. I don't know if I ever got as fat as I felt, but after Nic's Cold Shoulder/War Treatment I was eating and eating and eating. I had to ask Mum to ration my food.

During the Occupation, nobody had a weight problem. Strict rationing meant the islanders got stick-model thin. What most people don't know is that Winston Churchill was against sending Red Cross food parcels to the islands. This was because he'd heard that most islanders were low-life collaborator types and therefore deserved to suffer.
⁵⁸
But people survived one way or another. Dad always said it was amazing how little a man could live on, and he proved this fact regularly with his rabbit food.

Mum started buying me diet meals, but I was always sneaking off to Les Riches and stock-piling chocolate and sweets. Then I'd go and eat them on the beach at Fermain. I'd sit in an XL T-shirt and stuff my face and pretend I was a common English tourist. Well, I did that until Mr McCracken found me out.

There I was, surrounded by Fanta plus crisp packets plus Lion Bars, when along comes McCracky, wandering-lonely-as-a-cloud along the water's edge. He didn't look half-bad with his shirt off, unlike me, the Human Pavlova. I wanted to run away but I didn't dare get up in case that was more frightening.

Mackers waded into the sea like he was going to go for a swim, but his arms were up at right-angles so I knew he was feeling the cold. The water was icy, even in August, and I think he must've lost his nerve. He was hobbling back up the shingle when he saw me. I waved whilst trying to hide Bounty wrappers.

‘Hello.' His eyes darted over the wrappers and crisp packets. ‘Are you having a picnic?'

I was still eating so I put my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh, don't worry, it's not all for me! I'm meeting Vicky and some of the other girls.' (I looked up and down the beach and acted exasperated.) ‘I don't know
where
they've got to.'

Mr Mac nodded. ‘You must be missing Nicolette. She's in France with her family for the whole summer, I hear.'

I had to swallow hard and some Lion Bar got stuck in my throat. After narrowly avoiding a choking fit I looked up at Mr Mac.

‘It's not like she's my
only
friend.'

He smiled. ‘Of course.' Then he turned back to look at the sea and I did the same and there was a long enough silence for it to feel awkward.

A few kids ran past us. When they dipped their toes in the sea they jumped and started screaming.

Mr Mac chuckled. ‘I was trying to build myself up into going for a swim but it's still so cold! I don't know. I think your dad had the right idea about jumping in off the Moorings. Are you still clearing the stones out there?'

‘Oh no,' I said, ‘I stopped doing that ages ago. Nobody else dares to dive off there so what's the point?'

Mr Mac blinked. ‘Oh! That's good to know.'

I advised him to go to the West Coast, since the water is definitely warmer there, and Vazon kiosk has home-made ice cream. He said he might definitely try it and told me to take care. That was my last Mc-sighting of the summer. OK. So I did go to Vazon a few times but I don't know if he took my advice, and NO, I didn't go to check. I went because cycling there was good exercise, and I needed a change of scene. I certainly wouldn't have bothered if I'd known I'd see the Lisa-Ferret. I was sitting on the slipway, minding my own business and reading That-Genius-Stephen-King when she came along. Actually, it was quite funny, since I was reading
Pet Sematary
and Lisa does have the look of the undead.

Bloody Lisa-Ferret-Face Collenette. I suppose I should be glad she came over to sneer in my face, since she also told me that Michael was out of his coma. It was Wednesday,
20
th August – I remember writing a big ‘X' on my Guernsey Museums wall calendar.

‘The doctors are really pleased with him. He'll need physio and stuff, but all things considered it's amazing.'

‘That's fantastic,' I smiled so hard it hurt. ‘When will he be home?'

Lisa shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘Just count yourself lucky. He says he doesn't remember a thing about what happened so you're off the hook.
We'll never
know
what really happened.'