The Island Remains

By Evelyn Rainey

Invaders come and go, but the island remains. When Germans occupy the English Channel Island Helierhou during WWII, Delamair befriends the general and does what she can to make life better for all involved. But when the general is replaced, she discovers the new colonel, Karl von Kruppstieg, expects more from her than she has ever given anyone. He believes he owns the island - and her. In the background, Captain Luther Sizemore waits and finally teaches her that love and intimacy are more precious than even life itself. While the Heliers and their occupiers grapple in a world conquered by darkness, they find hope in friendship, family and faith, for - when the darkness passes - these things remain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611608458

Book preview

The Island Remains

by

Evelyn Rainey

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2014 by Evelyn Rainey

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-845-8

Cover Artist:

Editor: Melanie Billings

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To all the members of Writers for All Seasons - hundreds of them over the last ten years - but most especially to Daniel Leboeuf who did an incredible job critiquing the manuscript, Tracy Zielinski, Dave Zielinski, Victoria Hadley, Abigail Contraras , Alison Nissen, Don Prescott, Deanna Shumaker; with a special nod at Roman Knoblich. I would also like to thank Melanie Billings, who believed in Helierhou.

Chapter 1

March 1944

The icy breeze rushed past Generalmajor Brucke and the headmaster’s wife, Delamair, and cascaded over the parapet, crossed the island of Helierhou, and plunged into the English Channel. The Normandy Coast sparkled white across the glimmering blue-green to the east. Sark, Jersey and Guernsey lay south, just visible from the top of the ancient stone fortifications on which they stood. One hundred years ago, the skeletal stone parapet became the foundation of Helierhou’s Academy for Dependent Children. In the 17th century, it was a stronghold for various refugee Royalists. Prior to that, it was a monastery which housed Catholic monks from 1400 until the Presbyterian Synod took over during the 1600s. Over the last three years, it has housed the island’s headquarters for the German occupation force.

Wild flowers—bluebells and daisies—scented the air despite it being only early spring and vied with fish smells of the harbor to the west and the village of Gueschlin nestled along the shore.

A plane flew overhead quite low, and the two people watched it land in the airstrip just past Helierhou’s forest.

That will be my replacement.

She nodded to the old man shrunken beneath his heavy woolen and ermine coat.

Oberst Karl von Kruppstieg is a fine man by accounts. Combat trained, aristocrat by birth, but this is his first war, so he’s still hungry.

She nodded again.

He leaned his shoulder against hers, So be careful.

She met his eyes.

I wish you would come with me. You wouldn’t need travel documents at my side. You know you’d be welcomed.

Thank you, but I belong here.

There are children you could teach in Germany. My grandchildren could use you as a governess. My wife wants you to come.

She turned and took his hands, warming them in her own. When the war ends, come back. You and your wife will be most welcome in my home.

A car wound through the forest towards the academy.

It depends on how the war ends…

Not to me.

He kissed her forehead and they began the slow descent down the parapet’s icy stone steps.

At the base of the stairs, she glanced at the newcomer. He stood in the foyer; well-balanced muscles and height; shoulders broad without looking like a beast of burden; tight butt and narrow hips without a hint of femininity. Blond and blue eyed, but his skin had had a hard time with chicken pox. The smell of him—crisp aftershave, pipe tobacco and male sweat—wafted toward the headmaster’s wife. She blinked in surprise at the desire his presence imbued. She was not one swayed by desires—denied to her for so long—but her skin tingled of its own accord. Then his eyes met hers.

Power. Power was embedded within the flesh of his face. Intelligence marbled his features. He was at the age when men are truly men, somewhere between thirty-eight and fifty-five, when the number of years lived no longer matters, but the way these years are spent means everything.

Oberst Kruppstieg didn’t smile, but he licked his lips and inclined his head. He turned to the man at her side and saluted, Generalmajor Brucke, I bring you greetings from Berlin. My orders. He handed an envelope to the tall thin man.

Brucke gave them a cursory glance and pocketed them. Come to my—your new office.

The headmaster’s wife walked past the Oberst, trailing a light scent of French lavender. I’ll bring you coffee after I’ve settled your valet.

It was hard to tell, swathed as she was in a worn woolen shawl, but Karl got a definite impression of sensuousness about her. She moved like a tree sprite from out of the Nordic legends, sure of her feet and the paths they trod. She belonged here; he could almost see the ethereal threads binding her to this place and this place to her.

The commandants sat, first the Generalmajor behind his desk, then the Oberst in the rich leather and mahogany armchair beside the matching couch.

Did you have a pleasant journey?

No, he had not. But truth mattered little here where courtesy and form must hold sway. Yes, thank you.

How is your father?

Von Kruppstieg raised an eyebrow at this informality.

I knew him. Served with him during the Great War. We were in the cavalry together. Your father sat a horse better than—

A light tap on the door interrupted him. Both men said, Come.

A gefreiter opened the door and the headmaster’s wife carried a large wooden tray to the buffet. The soldier grinned at the new commandant; his uniform was neat and tidy, but too large for such a young boy. As with most replacements at this point in the war, he was barely older than fifteen.

Von Kruppstieg looked again at the young private. Schmidt? Wilhelm?

The boy’s grin brightened into an adorable smile. Yes, sir. It is me.

I had no idea you knew your new oberst. Why didn’t you mention it, Schmidt? Brucke asked.

The boy reddened and looked at his feet.

Von Kruppstieg gently came to his rescue. You look very fine in your uniform, private. It suits you well. Do you like it better than the livery?

The boy opened his mouth but frowned, unsure which answer would be best. I am proud to be in the army.

But?

I miss the horses.

I would imagine they miss you, too. You have a gift for horses, Wilhelm. And I’m sure my children miss you, too. I will call you if we need anything.

Wilhelm saluted and quietly shut the door behind him.

Brucke and Delamair exchanged glances. They had both grown fond of the teenager. When he was off-duty, Wilhelm played with the students rather than drink with the other soldiers. He and an orphan by the name of Pettigrew had become fast friends; Wilhelm taught him how to ride and Pettigrew taught him how to read. The fact that the new colonel also knew and liked the boy boded well for him.

Without speaking, the woman poured two large cups with coffee and dropped a single sugar cube in one, followed by a small dollop of cream. She ignored the utilitarian mugs the kitchen always set beside the tray. She used the china set her brother-in-law had given her as a wedding present. The pattern was Blue Willow and it was a testament to her mind-set that even though the Germans occupied her island, they were still guests in her house. She brought the cup and saucer to Brucke and asked, How do you like your coffee, Colonel?

The appropriate term is ‘Oberst,’ he corrected her.

I just can’t get used to speaking German, she replied.

He studied her face to see if her protest was due to ignorance or insolence. Without the thick woolen shawl, the woman before him was beautiful. Her luscious red hair was swept into an old fashioned French twist rather than the new style of twisting the hair above the head in two rows, but it enhanced her wide hazel eyes and supple lips. Pale freckled skin was unwrinkled across her strong cheekbones. She was at the age when most German women would be sending their teenagers off to boarding school. Women seemed vulnerable at that age, because they were losing their identity as mother and were still enthralled by the child-bearing hormones.

I would imagine the Oberst would like his coffee with a splash of cognac; his father always did.

"Black is fine, danka."

Oberst von Kruppstieg, may I introduce Missus Delamair Appleton, the headmaster’s wife.

Welcome to Helierhou, Colonel von Kruppstieg. She held out a cup and saucer. Surrounding her wrists were jagged lines of scar tissue about an inch wide—the width of hemp rope used to hold livestock. Karl’s eyes fastened on them. She saw what captured his attention, but she refused to be cowed by it. I’m sorry my husband wasn’t here to greet you.

He took the cup and his eyes moved up her sleeves to her plump breasts hidden behind a thick linen dress. Her neckline and throat held promise of silky flesh under the linen. She was head and shoulders shorter than him, but well-proportioned.

Headmaster Thomas Appleton, the twist of the old man’s lips and the tone of his voice saying the name was all Karl needed to sum up the Generalmajor’s opinion of the man, is administering mid-terms to his upper classmen.

Karl’s eyes lingered on Delamair’s features, wondering about the relationship between her and Brucke. There was obviously a fondness there, a familiarity drawn dearer because of the three years spent under the same roof. The Oberst wondered if there weren’t perhaps more between them, and might he inherit the same privileges as he took command.

You will meet the rest of the Academy’s staff this evening, after I have gone.

Delamair frowned at the old man’s words and turned away. Wilhelm will ring me if you need more coffee.

Frau Appleton, Oberst von Kruppstieg held out his hand, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am very grateful for your hospitality.

She placed her right hand in his; his skin warm against hers. This time, he ignored her bracelets of scar tissue and looked her in the eye. She stared at him with proud dignity, then blinked and granted him a tender but fleeting smile.

As the door closed behind her, the generalmajor spoke quickly, Of all the people on this island, she is the one to depend on. The villagers trust her; the fishermen think she charms the waters. The Academy flourished under her administration.

That would have been during the time her husband was in a French labor camp.

Yes.

You sentenced him to one year’s hard labor. And yet, you clearly dote on her.

Brucke sipped from his cup. She was with me when I had the heart attack.

No wonder!

Don’t be vulgar. And never speak of her that way again. She is my friend, and I hers. We were out in the garden. If she had not been there, I would have perished.

She saved your life—the wife of a convicted Resistance leader?

The headmaster was implicated in several incidents. But there was never enough proof for a conviction. Had there been proof, I would have had him shot.

Karl got up and poured himself another cup. Brucke declined when offered the pot. What are her sympathies?

She has none—she is beyond this war.

She will be the first person I know who is, Karl scoffed.

The second. Herr General der Kavallerie Baron von Kruppstieg is beyond this war, too, for what amounts to the same reason.

My father?

"He and I are Alte Hasen—Old Hares—we have both faced battle and know it better than we care to. Does he ever speak of the Battle of Somme?"

No.

"It was the first time tanks were used in battle. The British had them and shot into our men. An American journalist wrote that it was like shooting fish in a barrel. They didn’t stop. The guns never stopped. We died and died and kept dying. Most of us who survived will never forgive the British. And very few of us ever speak of it."

My father won’t allow motorized tractors on our lands. He becomes ill at the sound of them. I never realized. He never spoke of his reasons.

Delamair never speaks of her scars.

The ones on her wrists?

And ankles. Brucke shrugged and smiled sadly. She likes to go barefoot in summer. She has already faced battle. Something happened years ago, a battle of good versus evil perhaps. She never speaks of it. But those scars are silent testament to her endurance.

They look like the marks left by ropes.

"I believe so. Long ago, someone tied her up for a very long time. So why should it matter to her now what government lays claim to her island? She has a saying: invaders come and go, but the island remains." The old man stood and leaned on his desk. Oberst von Kruppstieg, I am going to ask two favors of you.

Karl inclined his head.

When I die, you will be contacted. You will send Stabsrichter Luther Sizemore to my wife’s side immediately to serve as pallbearer. I lost both sons this decade; Luther will stand in their stead.

Karl nodded.

And now, the second favor. There is a grave in the infant section of the cemetery just north of the chapel. It’s about four miles from the academy. I ask that, when news comes of my death, you put a wreath on that grave.

Which grave?

You will know it. It is Delamair’s daughter’s. It bears her name. He reached for his coat. He stretched his arms into the sleeves and slowly allowed the old coat to swallow him. They will never permit her to leave the island by herself because she has no citizenship papers. But in this way, perhaps, she will have some comfort.

The gefreiter opened the door. Herr Generalmajor, the car is ready.

Thank you. I’m coming. He put down his cup and straightened. Do not trust the headmaster.

Because of his wife’s scars?

No, they precede her arrival on Helierhou. Don’t trust him; I can’t say why. There is just a wrongness about him. An unworthiness. But if you should have to shoot him—I want the bullet.

* * * *

The primary children were lined up along the square. The soldiers stood in formation along the road. They drew to attention as the commandant exited the academy. He shook the oberst’s hand, spoke soft and encouraging words to several of his staff, embraced the young captain Luther Sizemore, waved at the children, and then turned to take Delamair’s hand. She stuck a bluebell in his lapel, a solitary tear tracking her cheek.

All this, Karl observed from the steps of the academy. He saluted his predecessor and was saluted in return. He watched as Brucke was helped into the automobile; the chauffer shut the door. The headmaster’s wife went to stand beside Luther. They stood very close to each other, Karl noted.

As the car passed the children, a little girl in a faded pink dress waved goodbye.

Chapter 2

March 1944

Stabsrichter Luther Sizemore kept an eye on the dining hall door. When the new commandant entered, Luther stood to attention and made note of his staff who were slow to do so. He had read Von Kruppstieg’s dossier. He was old school, trained and molded between the wars.

At ease, the Oberst allowed.

Luther was at his side immediately; deferential without being subservient. Karl had met with him earlier and liked the young man. Karl wasn’t in the habit of liking men under his command.

Together, they walked toward the group of civilians.

Herr Oberst, this is Headmaster Thomas Appleton.

Of the four men in front of him, Karl was surprised to discover this man of at least sixty years was married to Brucke’s much younger friend. He was twice her age. He bore intelligent features, bushy eyebrows, an aquiline nose, and fleshy lips—not unkind, but somehow unwholesome. Appleton was tall and broad shouldered, but soft in an academic’s fashion. The sweater vest over his shirt was frayed at the buttons, but the professorial cloak was shiny clean.

The headmaster did not offer his hand, nor did the oberst. Karl felt an immediate dislike for Thomas, much the same way two dogs in a dockyard raise their hackles on sight.

Thomas introduced him to the three other islanders in quick and efficient, if bloodless, fashion. Beckert—professor of Math and Science. Stuart—history and geography. Lanz—languages.

Rather than allow Thomas his coup, Karl smiled charmingly at Lanz, Which ones?

The young man paled, looked desperately at Appleton for guidance, and then answered, "German, English, French, Latin. The students speak the various Norman dialects, so I have learned those as well—Auregniais, Dgernesiais, Jerriais, and Sercquiais. And of course, the children from Heleirhou speak