Chapter 1

June 1941

Helen heard her aunt coughing as she carried Bobby down the stairs to join her for breakfast. Anxiety gnawed in her stomach. This had been going on for weeks now, probably even months, and she wished her aunt would do as she asked and see a doctor.

‘Morning, Helen.'

Helen tried to smile but failed. She manoeuvred her six-month-old son into his highchair and handed him a toy to keep him busy while she prepared his porridge.

‘Morning, Aunt Sylvia.'

Her aunt looked up from pouring out two cups of tea. ‘You seem a little cross.'

Not wishing to be unkind, but needing to impress the urgency of her aunt's condition on her, if that was what it would take to make her see sense, Helen tilted her head to one side. ‘I know you keep trying to reassure me about your cough, but I think we both know it's been getting worse, Aunty. Won't you go to see the doctor? If not for yourself, then for Bobby?'

Her aunt drew back one of the chairs for Helen to sit on. She caught a fleeting expression on her aunt's face and tensed as it dawned on her she was about to hear bad news.

‘You have seen him, haven't you?' She closed her eyes, wishing she had said nothing. She wasn't ready for this. Her aunt was the only relative she had left who cared for her and Bobby.

Sylvia placed a cup of tea in front of her before doing the same with her own, then sat down. She sighed heavily. ‘I'm sorry, Helen. I should have told you before now, but I couldn't find the words.'

Bracing herself for what was to come, Helen clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Tell me.'

Her aunt's attention was taken by two German soldiers talking angrily outside their front door.

‘Have a look and see if you can work out what that's about?' her aunt said, pointing down the hallway.

Helen ran to the living room and looked outside, slinking backwards when one of the uniformed men turned to her. She wished she understood German like her close friend and neighbour, Peggy Hamel. Seeing one of the men indicate the houses opposite theirs, Helen understood what the fuss was about and returned to her aunt.

‘It seems that someone has painted a V on the front doors of two houses across the road,' she said, unsure whether to be excited or concerned about any repercussions.

‘There's been quite a bit of that going on around the place, I gather,' her aunt said thoughtfully. She gave a wry grin. ‘I wish I had the courage to do something similar.'

She began coughing again and Helen winced to hear the rasping. ‘I'm glad you don't. I—' A loud bang on the front door made her jump. ‘I think we're about to be asked about the vandalism across the road.'

Bobby began to cry. ‘It's all right, poppet,' Helen soothed, hugging him.

Another loud bang was joined by an order to open the door. Sylvia began to get up but Helen stopped her. ‘No. You stay here with Bobby. I'll speak to them.'

Her heart pounded heavily in her chest and she swallowed the nausea threatening to reach her throat as she opened the door with a shaky hand. ‘Yes?'

A sharp-featured officer of about thirty-five glared down at her. ‘You are the inhabitant of this house?'

‘Yes. I live here with my aunt and son.' She tried not to look at the deep scar running from one side of his mouth almost to his ear and wondered what might have caused it.

‘We will speak to them.' Without waiting for Helen to say anything, he stepped into the hallway, forcing her to move backwards out of his way. ‘They are where?'

Speaking loudly to warn her aunt, Helen indicated the kitchen. ‘We're through here. If you'll follow me.'

She heard the front door being closed and the heavy jackboots as the two uniformed men followed her through the house. Helen widened her eyes at her aunt, who seemed far calmer than she was at that moment. Bobby stared up at the men, seeming too astonished at them to cry.

‘What is your reason for forcing your way into my home?' Sylvia snapped.

Helen went to stand next to her aunt, shocked by her attitude to the soldiers.

‘I am Hauptmann Wilhelm Schneider and this is Leutnant Klaus Müller. We wish you to tell us if you saw the traitor who painted the Vs on the doors opposite your house.'

Helen didn't dare look at her aunt, but immediately insisted she had seen nothing.

‘I didn't notice it last evening,' Sylvia said, only a slight quaver in her voice. ‘I therefore presume it must have been done under cover of darkness.'

‘And we were in bed by ten o'clock last night,' Helen added. ‘I only noticed it this morning when I heard you both outside and went to see what the fuss was about.'

‘Fuss?' The taller of the two officers glared at her, causing Helen to shiver. ‘The person will be caught.' His certainty made her fear for whoever had done it. ‘And they will be treated accordingly.'

Seemingly satisfied with their enquiry, they turned on their heels and left the house.

Helen ran after them, closed the front door and locked it. She went back to the kitchen and sat heavily, breathless from shock at having the hated officers in her home.

‘Well, that was rather frightening,' Sylvia said in a playful voice as she smiled at Bobby. ‘Wasn't it, poppet?'

Helen watched the concern fade from her little boy's face and was grateful to her aunt for her reaction. She drank a mouthful of her cooling tea and recalled what they were talking about before they had been interrupted by the Wehrmacht. ‘Don't think I've forgotten about our earlier conversation.'

Her aunt smiled. ‘I had hoped you might have done.' She sighed. ‘You'll be pleased to know that I have been to the doctor. A few times in fact.' She picked up her cup, blew on the tea, then, changing her mind, lowered it again. Raised voices filtered into the room from outside before they heard banging on the Hamels' door at number 3. Sylvia scowled.

‘What did the doctor say, Aunty?'

‘He's done tests and it's not TB, thankfully, but he prescribed some medicine and said I need to take things a little easier.'

Helen wanted to believe what she was being told but she was aware her aunt played things down and doubted she was hearing the full story. ‘Is that it, or is there more?' She took another sip of tea. Her voice wavered. ‘I want to be able to support you but I can only do that if I know exactly what's wrong.'

Her aunt stared at her for a moment. ‘I suppose you should know,' she admitted. ‘He did say that the virus has weakened my heart and that although I seem fine now, I do need to be careful and that it will get worse over time.'

Did that mean her aunt was going to die? Helen tried not to show her panic. ‘How much time?'

‘He couldn't say. He did say I need to be careful not to catch any winter colds, if possible. Eat as well as I can. Rest. That sort of thing.'

Helen listened intently, trying to work out how she could help. ‘We'll just have to ensure you take things easier, then, won't we?' She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘You've been so good taking Bobby and me in without any questions or?—'

‘Enough of that.' Her aunt smiled. ‘I'm fine. There's no need to concern yourself about me. And having the pair of you here has been a joy. It's given me a new lease of life, despite everything going on around us.' She held out her hands and looked around the room. If you hadn't arrived on my doorstep last year, I would have had to face all this nastiness on my own now, wouldn't I?'

Helen supposed she was right, but that didn't stop her feeling grateful that her aunt had simply opened the door and welcomed her inside her home when she had arrived that June morning straight from the ferry, pregnant, heartbroken and terrified about what she should do next.

‘Maybe you'll be able to rest this afternoon?' she suggested as a German shouted at someone outside.

Helen wondered if it might be easier living further away from town but pushed the thought aside, aware that her aunt had lived at 2 Tynemouth Terrace on St Aubin's Road since moving to Jersey with her husband in the twenties. She knew Aunt Sylvia would rather lose sleep than let Nazis force her from her home.

‘Not much chance of that,' Sylvia replied, resting a hand on Helen's shoulder. She nodded in Bobby's direction. ‘You don't want to be late for work at the villa now, do you?'

‘The villa' was Villa Millbrook, a beautiful Arts and Crafts style house owned by Lady Trent, the woman behind the Boots empire. As far as Helen was aware, the elderly lady had been persuaded by concerned relatives to spend the war at a family home in Scotland. Helen was glad she wasn't there to see her beloved home being lived in by Nazi officers since it had been requisitioned at the beginning of the Occupation.

Helen had been working there for a few months now, thanks to her aunt knowing the housekeeper, Mrs Edwards, and arranging for her to have an interview. She didn't mind her job assisting Mrs Jeune, the cook, even though it meant waiting on German soldiers in the dining room. And she was grateful that her aunt loved looking after Bobby.

‘You're right. I should be going. I'll just give him this last mouthful then I'll tidy up first.'

Her aunt waited patiently for her to finish feeding him, then took the empty bowl and spoon from Helen's hands. ‘Off you go.'

Helen watched enviously as her aunt picked up a cloth and wiped Bobby's cherubic face. She wished she could be the one to stay with him.

‘Go on, then. This little one will be fine with me.'

‘I know he will,' Helen said, standing and kissing her aunt briefly on the top of her head. She felt a familiar tightening in her throat, thinking of her aunt's unconditional love, which had given Helen back the confidence she had lost. Aunt Sylvia had only suggested once, just before the occupation, that Helen contact her parents to see if they would welcome her home again. Helen had refused, mortified to have fallen pregnant without having a wedding ring on her finger. She thought of Richard, the man who had crushed her dreams as well as her heart when she'd discovered that he already had a fiancée, and wondered what he would think of their bonny six-month-old son.

‘Helen, I can see you're thinking about what happened again.' Her aunt gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘You must think ahead, dear. There's no point in longing for the past. I know, I've done it for years since losing my darling Malcolm.'

Helen opened her mouth to deny what she was doing but was silenced by her aunt's knowing look.

‘It won't do you or this little one any good to ponder on what might have been,' Sylvia added. ‘And as far as being good to you both, I only did what any other relative of yours might have done.'

They both knew that wasn't true. Most families would have done the opposite and turned Helen away in disgrace.

Sylvia waved her out of the room. ‘Now, get a move on or you'll be looking for another job.' She spilled some of Bobby's food from the spoon and tutted to herself as she went to fetch a damp cloth to clear it up.

Helen watched Sylvia walk through to the scullery and then kissed Bobby's forehead. ‘You be a good boy for your great-aunt Sylvia while Mummy is away.'

Hearing footsteps, she straightened up.

‘Are you still here?' Sylvia came back in with a scowl before shooing her away. ‘Go. Now.'

Helen set off on her half-hour walk to work contemplating how much she loved living on this beautiful island, where she, her parents and her older brother had come to stay with their aunt every summer holiday when she was younger. The island was different now, with German road signs, Occupation Reichsmarks as the currency and the hated grey-green German uniforms on every street. She loathed the red-and-black banners hanging from buildings. Even their clocks had been put forward one hour to coincide with the Continent.

‘Good morning,' she said, smiling at Ida Hamel next door, who was coming out of her house. Helen liked their neighbour. There was something sad about her – probably, Helen thought, because she had been widowed only eighteen months before – but she didn't seem to judge Helen in any way, nor did her daughters Peggy and Babs, and for that Helen was grateful.

Helen went to cross the road, stopping when a black car with familiar insignia flying from the aerial blasted its horn. She was shocked that she had nearly been run over. Although she mostly remembered to look left instead of right before crossing the street, she knew that sometimes she still automatically looked right first.

She quickened her pace along the pavement, cheered at the thought of Bobby, who had recently begun crawling, causing her and Aunt Sylvia to move all the ornaments in the living room up on shelves out of his reach.

Something caught Helen's eye, and she hesitated in front of a shopfront, where a placard was affixed, stating, ‘Jewish Undertaking'. She stared at the sign, her good mood vanishing, and clenched her fists, enraged to think people were being put into categories. Hearing heavy footsteps, she noticed a uniformed soldier walking in her direction and immediately moved on.

How must the shop's proprietor feel about that sign? What was the world coming to when this sort of thing became a way of life?

Several minutes later Helen passed another shop but this time the placard read, ‘Under an Aryan administrator'. Helen fought the urge to turn around and run back to her aunt's home, wanting to blot out what she had seen. Poor Bobby – what had she done, bringing him into a world this cruel?

She decided there was little she could do but make the best of things. She was here now, and so was Bobby. She just needed to put one foot in front of the other and make the best of what was coming to her. She forced a smile and kept walking.