had happened in the last few days that he no longer knew the answer to that question. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. Even in his mother’s fragile mental state, it wouldn’t do to lie to her. She would see right through him. He also hoped it would make him more real to her. Would a spectre tell the truth, or would it tell her what she wanted to hear? ‘I don’t know if we’re safe, and I don’t know what’s going to happen,’ he continued, fixing his gaze on hers and keeping his voice clear. ‘But as long as we stick together, we can come through this.’
‘I thought the Germans had taken you, that you’d gone. Gone like your father. You’re all I have, my son.’ She placed the palm of her hand against his face as she looked up at him, her skin cold to the touch.
He gripped her shoulder, trying to be reassuring, but careful not to squeeze too tight. ‘I’m here, and I will always be. I’m not going anywhere.’
The island was home, the people on it his family. His entire world was here, and he had never known anything else. Johanna had thought about leaving, but she knew that he couldn’t, not while there was still something to stay for.
‘You should go,’ she said after a moment, her voice faint. ‘Find safety. Go to England, at least the Germans haven’t got there yet and they may never get there. Please, go!’
Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was attempting to wipe them away with the back of her hand. Jack wasn’t used to such an open display of emotion, but still he went to her and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Anyway, it’s too late for that. I’m going to stay and look after you, Grandpa and Nan. Better here in our home than refugees in England.’
He held her for a while longer while the sobs subsided and his arm grew stiff.
*
The faint breeze fluttered the flag as Jack walked nearer, looking up into the bright summer sky. The Union flag was resplendent against the backdrop of the sun, its cord snapping against the pole with a sharp pinging noise. The rhythm was irregular, beaten by the whim of the wind. On other days the tinny noise would be irritating, but today it provided a sense of melancholy, the only sound against a sea of silence on an island that felt utterly abandoned. It had flown above the White Rock as long as Jack could remember, sometimes at half mast, but never removed.
Jack had volunteered for the task, but he didn’t relish it. For some reason he wanted to save anyone else from the ignominious duty. He took a hold of the cord but hesitated. He wanted one last look at the Union flag flying over the island, to cement in his mind the time before, the time when things had seemed less fraught. It was entirely symbolic, the flag and everything else that went with it, but something in him knew that symbols were more important than he or most people ever imagined.
Finally, he pulled the cord and the flag lurched its way down the flagpole, jerking with each motion of his hand. He took his time and watched the wind against the cloth. It struck him then as odd. Here he was, a British policeman in uniform, striking the flag of the Union from the town’s flagpole, removing it entirely. If the flag no longer applied to them, then what did the uniform mean? He was proud of his uniform and he had worked hard to earn it, but did it really make sense to go on wearing it? When the Germans got to the island would they strip them of their uniforms and responsibility, or would they make them wear something to represent the Reich?
They hadn’t been told anything yet, but that only made Jack more anxious. All they knew was that they had to prepare for occupation, to visibly show their surrender and to remove all British flags from view. It left them in a weird state of limbo. Jack’s job as a policeman defined him, and he had been obsessed with holding up the law since he was a child, but now he had no idea who he was in this new world.
Jack untied the Union flag from its cord and folded it. There were people on the island to whom the flag meant very little. They considered themselves Guernesiais rather than British, but it meant something to Jack. He didn’t run up a new flag. It wasn’t his responsibility. He wanted to be the last who remembered the Union flag and what being part of the empire had meant for them. He was supposed to return the flag to the bailiff, but he didn’t think he would. They wouldn’t miss it, and besides he couldn’t trust them to keep it safe. He would take it home. There was a drawer beside his bed in which he kept many of his prized possessions. The flag would find a welcome home there, until it was needed again.
For now, the hour had come for them to face their fate.
*
30 June 1940
Jack had just sat down in the main office of the police station when the door flew open and the chief officer marched in. Jack’s legs were weary from patrolling all day, but still he pulled himself from the chair and stood to attention as etiquette demanded. The others in the room did the same at various intervals and they all threw smart salutes. The chief saluted back, then turned towards the door as a man in the grey uniform of the German Wehrmacht stepped in, followed by an adjutant or aide similarly dressed. A surprised silence filled the room. The Germans had finally arrived.
‘I would like to introduce the German Kommandant,’ the chief said, stepping aside in deference to the man in the grey uniform, his peaked cap now tucked under his arm. ‘He will be in charge of operations on the island, and I expect you to show him exactly the same level of respect that you show me.’
In normal circumstances someone would have cracked a joke at that point. Instead, the assembled policemen stood there, awkwardly awaiting orders. After a second or two those at the front of the room threw a stiff salute and the others joined in, Jack amongst them.
‘Thank you,’ the kommandant said with a thick German accent as he stepped forward to appraise them. The man was even older than the chief, twenty or thirty years Jack’s senior. He had a thin nose and deep brown eyes, and his hair was cut close, more silver than black. His uniform was just as cleanly pressed as every other German Jack had seen, but made from a better quality grey wool. An Iron Cross was tied at the neck of his tunic and gold braiding decorated his collar and epaulettes. His aristocratic bearing was obvious from the way he looked down his pointy nose at everyone.
‘I am happy to be here.’ His English was stilted as if he had practised the words. It was as though he didn’t really understand what he was saying, but had decided to say it nonetheless. Jack suspected that his command of the language was nothing to do with the reason he had been chosen for the position of commander of the occupation forces. Another German soldier stood at his shoulder, quietly looking over the assembled policeman. As on previous occasions when a French diplomat or some other authority had come to the island, they had been provided with an interpreter.
‘But my English is not so good,’ the kommandant continued. It was an unexpected admission for the kommandant, who had the air of a practised public speaker, a man who was never wrong, or allowed himself to be inferior. If it was a deliberate attempt to be disarming then Jack suspected that it had worked in a way. There was a relaxation of the tension around the room as the men realised that nothing they said would be understood by the German, and that his interpreter would probably not waste the time in translation.
He smiled at them in a way that didn’t reach his eyes, then gestured for his interpreter to step forward. The kommandant spoke, then the interpreter translated into perfectly structured and accented English. Jack couldn’t help feel that the interpreter was only paraphrasing what his superior officer was saying. He talked about how they had come in advance of the main force, their plans for the island, how none of them had anything to worry about as they were very fond of the islands and the Aryan people
