Red Room Where the Writers Are

Strange, solitary men lurked on the street corners, not trying to be too inconspicuous, paying close attention to every conversation between citizens. We Own You. Some said they were secret police, and if they caught you saying anything they didn't like they would arrest you. The strict rationing of gasoline and the commandeering of cars, which were ferried over to France, led to a run on the bicycle shops and the reappearance of horse-drawn wagons and carts.

Planes were always roaring in the sky, going to France, or, more ominously, to England. After July 15 they were allowed to listen to the BBC again, and thousands of trembling hands turned on the wireless to hear the BBC reports on the Battle of Britain raging almost overhead. Marlene listened and wept, even though it seemed Britain was holding up its side. This was reflected in the Germans' behavior; a soldier stabbed a civilian at the Alexandra Hotel. A series of warnings against rowdyism and careless driving carried more weight than usual, since their solution to everything was violence. We Own You.

Late August brought warm, dry weather and nightly firefights and bombing, either at the airport (with houses being hit) or on the nearby French coast. In September they entered the libraries and piled up the books they did not like, anything that was by Jews or described something of Jewish interest. They set fire to them, and the smoke polluted the air like hatred. We Own You. Fear was a staple; hunger threatened. Life was turned upside down and you learned to scurry down the street without saying much to anyone, to avoid the gaze of the soldiers, some of whom easily took offence.

At the Aliens Office, the other employees were put off by the extra paperwork involved in this Jewish registration business. Mr. Orange, almost eager to carry out the German Order, had been at his most officious that morning. Tall and slightly stooped, with wrinkled face and light,bushy eyebrows, he fancied himself to be avuncular, though nobody else did. Since the occupation, he had expressed his newfound sense of importance unreservedly. Orders from the Feldkommandantur to Bailiff Coutanche regarding the many segments of the large foreign-born population all came to his desk. This new Order was somewhat unusual; he had gathered the girls into his office to explain it. Music tinkled softly on the wireless; later on in the day they would hear snatches of Lord Haw-Haw pontificating on German Overseas Radio.

“Ladies,” Mr. Orange began, clearing his throat,“I trust you understand this Order?” He looked at them over his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Yes, sir,” they said uncertainly.

“It is up to this Office to carry out the Orders to the letter, so that Bailiff Coutanche and our, er, German guests are satisfied. All Jews will be coming in to register, and I ask that you be as helpful as possible in this endeavor.”

“Mr. Orange, isn't this only for aliens?” Pauline, a tall clerk who usually was silent, looked quizzically at Mr. Orange.

“No, Pauline. This is for ALL the Jews.” Pauline said nothing.

Marlene's chest felt tight. Why did Jersey Jews have to register in the Aliens Office? Were they suddenly not British subjects? She took a deep breath and tried to relax. I don't count, she thought. I only have two Jewish grandparents.

“We just need to do what they want, and they'll leave us be,” he had said, looking optimistic, but avoiding their gaze.

Who is “us,” Marlene thought.

What am I, Marlene thought.

She stopped thinking for the rest of the workday, and went on filing, typing, sorting. Her head felt hollowed out; the thoughts she was emptying it of were so enormous that there was nothing left to think about. She forced herself to keep making small talk with the other girls she worked with. No, she didn't want to go to the cinema that night to see a German film; she was busy that evening, but later in the week would be splendid.

The thoughts kept returning. Am I one? Do I have to register? What will happen? She knew her late father was Jewish; he had died when she was a young child, but her mother had told her, and shown her the wine goblet he had left for her, calling it a “kiddish,” or something. She certainly couldn't call herself much of a Christian; she had stopped going to church very young, and her mother had never made a fuss over it, not going much herself. They went to her father's grave in the Jewish section of the Almorah cemetery every six months or so, each putting a little pebble on his headstone as they saw other Jews doing at their own loved ones' gravesites. Now her mother was buried near her father, just outside the Jewish section.

Marlene jumped up and checked the clock. It was half-past six, well before the 11 PM curfew. She wanted to visit the graves. But it was dark outside. Even though she could bicycle there in the dark, it might arouse suspicion. She paced back and forth. Then she pulled an old overcoat out of the closet. She bustled around her small flat, picking up a few handkerchiefs, a toothbrush, some underwear, a small bar of soap, a tiny sewing kit, money. She stuffed these things in the pockets and hung the coat on the back of her bedroom door. She sat down again, picked up the paper, and tried to do the crossword puzzle. It was impossible to concentrate. She got up, rummaged through drawers, and found her father's goblet. She held it reverently and looked at the indecipherable Hebrew writing on it. She barely remembered her father except from photos, but did recall him hugging her and playing catch with a big red rubber ball. Her mother had adored her father, always had pleasant recollections of him, and never remarried after his death. What if he were alive today? What would happen to him? He would certainly have to register. Nobody knew exactly what the jerries were up to with the Jews, but nobody had heard anything good. There was no love lost between the Jews and some non-Jewish islanders, and certain people talked.

After a small dinner she switched on the wireless. She had never listened to the wireless much until the war and the occupation intruded on her life. Churchill was going on in his jowly voice, addressing the French as well as the English. “Here in London, which Herr Hitler said he will reduce to ashes, and whose aeroplanes are now bombarding (Marlene shut her eyes), our people are bearing up.” He launched into a summary of the state of affairs. “We have command of the sea. They wish to carve up our Empire as if it were a fowl,” etc. “Therefore have hope and faith, for all will come right,” he said, after a long description of the indignities already visited upon France, and the future obliteration of French culture desired by Hitler. “I will not go into detail; hostile ears are listening” made her shiver. She kept reassuring herself that she had only two Jewish grandparents, so she didn't really count...