Chapter 4
chapter
St. Helier
Ivy slipped her stethoscope into her medical bag and smiled at Thelma Galais. “You’re as healthy as ever.”
“I keep telling Edna.” Mrs. Galais sent a fond smile to her daughter sitting on the sofa beside her, a smile beautified by lines born of laughter.
Edna Walters gripped her mother’s gnarled hand. “I won’t take any chances.”
“Neither will I.” Which was why Ivy made monthly visits to the cozy home in St. Helier.
Mrs. Galais waved her free hand at her daughter. “I only let you make these appointments so we can see our Ivy.”
“Our Dr. Picot, Mum.”
For the sweet woman she’d known all her life, Ivy would gladly make an exception. “You can always call me Ivy.”
Determination pursed Mrs. Galais’s lips. “Edna’s right. You’re a physician and a fine one. Whenever one of my friends tells me to switch doctors, I tell them no. A Dr. Picot brought me into this world, and a Dr. Picot will see me into the next one.”
“Mum, you mustn’t talk that way.”
Mrs. Galais heaved a mock sigh. “Let’s change the subject so we don’t grieve my dear Edna. Do you have a drawing for me, Iv—Dr. Picot?”
“Oh yes.” She pulled out her sketch pad and flipped through. With care, she tore out a drawing and handed it to Mrs. Galais.
She gasped. “Oh, isn’t he precious? Look at that precious rabbit.”
Ivy chuckled. “I doubt Mrs. Nicolle would have called him precious if she spotted him chewing her carrots.”
Edna tapped the drawing. “Nice and plump. He’d make a good stew.”
Another gasp from Mrs. Galais. “How you vex me.”
The doorbell rang.
“Excuse me, please.” Edna left the drawing room.
Mrs. Galais traced the rabbit’s penciled lines with a gleam in her hazel eyes. “Precious. Simply precious.”
Warmth swirled in Ivy’s stomach, empty though it was. She drew because she loved to draw, because her fingers needed to record what her eyes saw. But bringing a bit of joy to her patients brought joy to her heart too.
Out in the hallway, Edna’s voice grew louder, strident and worried, trading sentences with a man’s voice, consoling but firm.
Ivy frowned and met Mrs. Galais’s concerned gaze. What was happening?
In a few minutes, Edna entered the drawing room, staring at a sheet of paper, her face pale. “We—we—Frank and I—we’re being deported to Germany.”
“Deported?” Ivy said, echoed by Mrs. Galais.
Edna fumbled for the chair arm and lowered herself to sitting. “The Germans are deporting all men born in England, not the Channel Islands. Frank—Frank is from London. Wives and children too, even if Jersey-born.”
The warmth in Ivy’s stomach turned to ice. “What? How can they . . .” Thousands of Englishmen lived in Jersey, including many of the island’s seventeen physicians.
“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Galais’s voice wavered. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Oh, Mum.” The order shook in Edna’s hands.
“What should we do? You—you don’t fall under the order, but you’re allowed to come with us.
I can’t bear to leave you alone, but—but they won’t tell us where we’re going, what conditions—they say we’ll be treated well, but I don’t trust—” Her face crumpled, and she lowered her chin.
Ivy pressed her hand over her mouth. Edna didn’t trust the Nazis, and neither did Ivy, especially after she’d seen those slave workers.
Surely they wouldn’t send innocent civilians to their horrid concentration camps—but they did.
They did send innocent Jewish civilians to those camps. Would they do the same to the English?
Mrs. Galais placed a fluttering hand on her chest. “You’re my only family here.”
Edna gave a jerking nod of her lowered head. Her two sons had evacuated in 1940 to fight with the British, along with Dad and Bill and four of Ivy’s cousins.
Ivy’s gaze bounced between mother and daughter, who faced no good nor pleasant paths. Mrs. Galais could stay in her home, but alone, with worsening living conditions. Or she could leave with her daughter, but to unknown—perhaps horrific—conditions. At eighty years of age.
Edna raised hazel eyes like her mother’s, now rimmed with red. “Mum? I’ll let you decide.”
“How long?”
“Tomorrow at four o’clock. We must report to the garage at the Weighbridge.” Edna rubbed her temple. “I need to find Frank. The shop. He’ll have to—Oh dear. It’s already five o’clock. We need to pack. Only what we can carry. Oh my.”
Mrs. Galais drew in a long breath, and her gaze cleared and steadied. “I’ll stay here in my home. You needn’t worry about me. I have everything I need. I have friends to keep an eye on me, keep me out of mischief.”
“And me,” Ivy said in a soft voice. “You have me.”
“See, I’ll be fine.” Mrs. Galais pushed herself to standing. “Find Frank. I’ll start gathering your belongings.”
Edna stood and flung the order down to her chair. “If only Frank and I weren’t so healthy. We could get a medical exemption.”
Medical exemption? Ivy rose. If all the Englishmen in Jersey had received deportation orders, how many might be seeking exemptions? “I need to return to the surgery.”
“Oh my. Yes, you do.”
Ivy said goodbye, dashed outside, and cycled home. The streets prickled with anxious activity. A pair of German soldiers knocked on a door a few houses up from La Bliue Brise.
She shoved her bicycle through the garden, through the back door, and into the supply room.
Fern ran to her. “Where have you been? The Germans—”
“I heard.” Ivy strode down the hallway.
“Dr. McKinstry rang—the Medical Officer of Health himself.” Fern kept pace with Ivy. “A board of doctors will meet at the Weighbridge garage tomorrow to decide on exemptions. They want you to write brief but thorough reports.”
“Thank you.” What would Ivy do without her efficient sister?
A dozen patients filled the waiting room. So many dear and familiar faces, and she gave them each a soothing look. “Good evening. I’m so sorry to hear about the orders. I’ll see you as quickly as possible.”
A middle-aged man rose with a lift to his square chin. “You’ll see me first.”
Mr. Sanderson huffed. “I was here long before him. We all were.”
“Mrs. Le Corre?” Ivy sent a taut smile to her sister, who recorded who came and when.
Fern nodded to the square-jawed gentleman. “Come on through, sir.”
“Fern,” Ivy said in a fierce whisper.
“He’s important,” she whispered back.
Ivy snatched her white coat from a hook. “His chart?”
“He doesn’t have one. He isn’t one of our patients.” She whisked an empty folder from her desk as they passed. “His name is Anthony Sloan-Huntington. Yes, the Anthony Sloan-Huntington.”
Ivy didn’t know the name, but she hadn’t time to set things to rights. She had a full waiting room. Those who qualified for exemptions deserved relief from their fears. Those who didn’t qualify needed time to pack and make provisions.
In the examination room, she straightened her white coat, greeted Mr. Sloan-Huntington, and motioned him to the examination table. “I understand you’re new to our practice. Who is your usual physician?”
Gray-blue eyes narrowed. “Dr. Tipton will no longer be my physician. He refused to write a medical exemption for me, but you will, young lady.”
Of all the doctors in Jersey, he’d chosen Ivy. Did he assume a young lady would be easier to intimidate? With a mild smile, she motioned again to the table. “Please be seated.”
“An examination is most unnecessary. But an exemption is most necessary.”
Ivy concealed her sigh and sat at a desk with the empty chart. “What is your ailment?”
Mr. Sloan-Huntington gave her a tepid smile. “Whichever ailment will grant me an exemption.”
Ivy set down her pen. “You are perfectly healthy.”
“Say that I’m a diabetic taking insulin.”
“Sir, we have no more insulin in Jersey. All the diabetics are now in hospital so we can control their diet and activity.” Where they lived in a horrid state of slow starvation.
“A heart condition, perhaps.” He gestured to the chart in an impatient manner.
This was why Dr. Tipton had refused. Ivy sat back and gave the man a sympathetic look. “I can understand how alarming the order must be, but I cannot write a false report.”
“You can, and you will. I own one of the largest banks in Jersey. If I were deported, it would lead to financial catastrophe.”
Surely the man had competent employees, and Ivy tucked her pen in her pocket. “If the Germans discovered I wrote a false report, not only would they dismiss your case but those of all my patients. If they were deported, it might lead to medical catastrophe. I cannot allow that.”
“Enough of this nonsense.” His square chin hiked up. “Get on with it.”
Ivy stood and extended her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Sloan-Huntington. I wish you all the best in finding a more compliant doctor.”
“The nerve.” He shook a finger at her. “I’ll do so, and then I’ll see this practice ruined.”
Ivy opened the door for him, and he marched out.
Fern ducked in. “Oh no. What happened?”
“Perfectly healthy.”
Fern winced and glanced after the man, who was slamming the front door. “Oh dear. He would have been a great asset to the practice.”
“If I were caught writing a false report, the practice would be destroyed.” It still might be if Mr. Sloan-Huntington bent another doctor to his will and took his revenge. She blew out a sharp breath. “Who’s next?”
Fern ushered in Joe Sanderson, only thirty years old but with a weak heart from rheumatic fever and a pregnant wife on bed rest.
“I don’t know what to do.” Mr. Sanderson sat on the examination table and twisted his cap in his hands. “Alice can’t manage without me, not with the little ones.”
Ivy was already writing a list of all the reasons deporting this man and his family would be injurious to the health of man, wife, and baby. “If anyone deserves an exemption, you do. I’ll do my best.”
“What if they don’t accept it?” More twisting of his cap. “How will I get my medication? They won’t even tell me where we’re going.”
“I’ll write a prescription for several months’ supply, just in case. Take it to Carter’s Chemist’s. They’re nearby.”
“Mr. Carter got a deportation order too.”
Ivy snapped up her head. “He did?”
“His shop’s next door to mine.” Mr. Sanderson waved to the imaginary shopfront. “He’s busy with his own matters tonight, but Miss de Ferrers promised to keep the shop open all night if necessary.”
She would. Beneath Miss de Ferrers’s prickly edges lay a soft core. Ivy referred patients to their pharmacy whenever possible.
Ivy scanned the report and the prescription. “I’ll come to the Weighbridge tomorrow in case my patients need assistance with the board. Please don’t worry. Surely . . .”
Surely the Germans wouldn’t be so cruel as to deport the Sanderson family?
Ivy forced a smile and handed the papers to Mr. Sanderson. The Nazis specialized in cruelty and in erasing all goodness from the island. Why did God do nothing to stop them?
Wednesday, September 16, 1942
Fighting her heavy eyelids, Ivy stood with Fern in the crowd at the Weighbridge. She’d stayed up late the night before, writing as many exemptions as possible, consoling those who didn’t qualify, and writing prescriptions for the journey.
All morning, she’d sat with her patients before the board of physicians—three Jersey doctors and three German. Some exemptions, like Mr. Sanderson’s, had been accepted. Some had not. The German doctors at least had the grace to apologize for the deportations.
A queue of several hundred deportees snaked past the crowd and onto Albert Pier, where two ships awaited to carry them away. Charlie and the Ormer had left for France yesterday, so he wouldn’t have to witness the travesty.
Frank and Edna Walters passed, and Ivy managed a quivering smile and wave. Like all the deportees, they carried bulging suitcases and wore as much clothing as possible, despite the excessive heat.
Mr. Sloan-Huntington passed with his wife.
Officiousness hardly qualified the man for deportation, and sympathy rippled through Ivy’s chest, but accompanied by a ripple of appreciation for her fellow doctors for refusing to bend to his demands.
The island’s physicians might treat her dismissively, but they were men of principle.
Then came Mr. and Mrs. Carter and their two nearly grown daughters.
Fern sniffed. “At least the Germans allow families to stay together.”
“Oh?” Ivy ripped her gaze from the poignant scene to her sister’s stony face. “I imagine most of these men would prefer for their wives and children to stay at home.”
One shake of Fern’s lovely head. “Families should be together, even if Bill disagrees. How can that man think a husband should abandon his wife and tear little boys from their mother?”
Ivy suppressed a sigh and patted her sister’s arm. How often had she tried to help Fern see that Bill had to fight for his country, that he wanted his boys to be safe, that he’d begged Fern to join them? But Fern saw what she wanted to see.
A sound arose, melodic and rhythmic, floating down from Mount Bingham on the east side of the marina, where boys in school blazers lined the hill. As their song flowed downhill, it gathered voices in its wake.
They sang “There’ll Always Be an England,” and Ivy’s breath caught.
An ardently pro-English song.
By deporting the English, the Germans hoped to widen the existing divide between those born in Jersey and those born in England, to curry favor with the locals.
The song grew in strength and volume and fervency, enveloping the crowd, and Ivy joined in.
“Ivy!” Fern nudged her. “Hush. You’ll get in trouble.”
The song would indeed anger the Germans, and Ivy sang louder, her voice snagging on her throat, swollen by tears.
Tears for those being deported to an unknown fate, simply because of the place of their birth. Tears for a world rent by war and occupation and oppression. And tears of pride for her fellow Jersey folk.
Today they were all Jersey folk, and they were all English folk.
In this, the Germans had failed.