The Book of Lies by Mary Horlock Page B

our first glimpse of the jodhpurs and the jackboot, and you know what shook me most? His handsome face. Underneath that queer-shaped helmet, glittering in the sun, he had a fine chiselled chin and greenish eyes. They was a colour I’d not seen before or since.
    â€˜Hello,’ he said, with a whisper of a smile. Then ‘What are you doing here?’ like I was the trespasser!
    Cor là, that made my little head spin, all right, but then I was a good few feet above him and I’ve never had much head for heights. I was perched on that old stone wall at the back of the Royal Hotel, doing my own reconnaissance. I’d heard from our neighbour Blanche Gaudion (that font of island gossip) that the Germans had arrived and were meeting with our local States deputies. That’s when I saw the swastika for myself – they’d had one whipped up by Creasey’s and paid for in full. I sat there for hours, keeping lookout, expecting gunshots and more bloodshed or drama, and to tell the truth I was disappointed. The only noise came from the planes high up in the sky. Over the next few days we saw hundreds of Junkers, Dorniers, Heinkels and Messerschmitts landing at the airport. I was no mechanic, but I made it my business to learn the differences between them.
    Whoever said Hitler wasn’t planning an invasion is a fool. Just look at the guns, planes and troops that poured onto this tiny island. The War Office reckoned we were of ‘no significance’, but the Germans didn’t agree. They covered the island in concrete soon enough, and anyone who has seen that very special species of vandalism blighting our beautiful coast cannot deny it. Look what they did at Pleinmont! 27 The Germans made this little rock their own and the Bailiff shook their hands and promised we’d offer no resistance. That’s not what you’d expect from such a stubborn and independent people, is it? Of course, you could say that we had no guns to fight back, but we could have made our own bombs, or booby-trapped our homes.
    Still, better to live a martyr than die as one. You know who told me that? That German with greenish eyes. His name was Unteroffizier Anton Vern, 28 and the next time I saw him he was standing in our parlour.
    He was tall and thin, but very dignified, not at all what I’d expected from my comic books. He called our father ‘Sir’.
    â€˜You have nothing to fear as long as you do what we ask,’ he said. ‘We are required to print notices informing the population of the new military occupation of the island. The Bailiff and Attorney General have agreed to this new order. You are ordered to assist us and I hope you can see it is in everyone’s best interests.’ We listened carefully as Vern moved about the room, light as air, making little gestures.
    â€˜We are not pointing a gun to anyone’s head. We are all merely following orders. Yes?’
    Pop slowly nodded.
    â€˜Good. We have control of the newspapers, but we cannot presume everyone will read them, therefore we shall display notices in prominent public places. I have yet to identify these places.’ He turned back and smiled at me. ‘I find your small and winding roads more than a little confusing, perhaps I need a guide?’
    I was about to tell him to go to Hell when Pop spoke in my place, and I don’t know what it was he said since to my shame it was in German. Maybe two or three sentences then passed between them, and I couldn’t believe my ears. I later learned that Pop was explaining to Vern how he’d learned the basics as a prisoner of war. Of course, he was trying to unsettle this young sap and put him in his place, but I was wound up so tight, like the coil of a spring, so I didn’t care a tuppenny for Pop’s motives. To hear my own father speak that foul language was more than I could stand for. I was flushed and well near choking with anger.
    â€˜Why should we take