I am perhaps saying too much, things you do not wish to hear. But I must do this to tell you how Elizabeth lived-and how she held on hard to her kindness and her courage. I would like her daughter to know this also.

Now I must tell you the cause of her death. Often, within months of being in the camp, most women stopped menstruation, but some did not The camp doctors made no provision for the prisoners' hygiene during this time-no rags, no sanitary towels. The women who were menstruating just had to let the blood run down their legs. The overseers liked this, this oh so unsightly blood; it gave them an excuse to scream, to hit A woman named Binta was the overseer for our evening roll call and she began to rage at a bleeding girl. Rage at her, and threaten her with her upraised rod. Then she began to beat the girl.

Elizabeth broke out of our line fast-so fast She grabbed the rod from Binta's hand and turned it on her, hitting her over and over again. Guards came running and two of them struck Elizabeth to the ground with their rifles. They threw her into a truck and took her again to the punishment bunker.

One of the guards told me that the next morning soldiers formed a guard around Elizabeth and took her from the cell. Outside the camp walls there was a grove of poplar trees. The branches of the trees formed an allee and Elizabeth walked down this by herself, unaided. She knelt on the ground and they shot her in the back of her head.

I will stop now. I know that I often felt my friend beside me when I was ill after the camp. I had fevers, and I imagined Elizabeth and I were sailing to Guernsey in a little boat. We had planned this in Ravensbriick-how we would live together in her cottage with her baby Kit It helped me to sleep. I hope you will come to feel Elizabeth by your side as I do. Her strength did not fail her, nor her mind-not ever-she just saw one cruelty too many.

Please accept my best wishes, Remy Giraud

Note from Sister Cecile Touvier, in the envelope with Remy's letter Sister Cecile Touvier, Nurse, writing to you. I have made Remy go to rest now. I do not approve of this long letter, but she insisted on writing it.

She will not tell you how ill she has been, but I will. In the few days before the Russians arrived at Ravensbriick, those filthy n.a.z.is ordered anyone who could walk to leave. Opened the gates and turned them loose upon the devastated countryside. 'Go,' they ordered. 'Go-find any Allied troops that you can.'

They left those exhausted, starving women to walk miles and miles without any food or water. There were not even any gleanings left in the fields they walked past. Was it any wonder their walk became a death march? Hundreds of the women died on the road.

After several days, Remy's legs and body were so swollen with famine oedema she could not continue to walk. So she just lay down in the road to die. Fortunately, a company of American soldiers found her. They tried to give her something to eat; but her body would not receive it. They carried her to a field hospital, where she was given a bed, and quarts of water were drained from her body. After many months in hospital, she was well enough to be sent to this hospice in Louviers. I will tell you she weighed less than sixty pounds when she arrived here. Otherwise, she would have written to you sooner.

It is my belief that she will get her strength back once she has written this letter and she can set about laying her friend to rest. You may, of course, write to her, but please do not ask her questions about Ravensbruck. It will be best for her to forget.

Yours truly, Sister Cecile Touvier From Amelia to Remy Giraud Mademoiselle Remy Giraud Hospice La Foret Louviers France

16th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Mademoiselle Giraud,

How good you were to write to us-how good and how kind. It could not have been an easy task to call up your own terrible memories in order to tell us of Elizabeth's death. We had been praying that she would return to us, but it is better to know the truth than to live in uncertainty. We were grateful to learn of your friendship with Elizabeth and to think of the comfort you gave to one another.

May Dawsey Adams and I come and visit you in Louviers? We would like to, very much, but not if you would find our visit too disturbing. We want to know you and we have an idea to put to you. But again, if you'd prefer it that we didn't, we won't come.

Always, our blessings for your kindness and courage,

Sincerely, Amelia Maugery From Juliet to Sidney 16th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Sidney,

How comforting it was to hear you say, 'G.o.d d.a.m.n, oh G.o.d d.a.m.n.' That's the only honest thing to say, isn't it? Elizabeth's death is an abomination and it will never be anything else.

It's odd, I suppose, to mourn someone you've never met But I do. I have felt Elizabeth's presence all along; she lingers in every room I enter, not just in the cottage but in Amelia's library, which she stocked with books, and Isola's kitchen, where she stirred up potions. Everyone always speaks of her-even now-in the present tense, and I had convinced myself that she would return. I wanted so much to know her. It's worse for everyone else. When I saw Eben yesterday, he seemed older than ever. I'm glad he has Eli. Isola has disappeared. Amelia says not to worry: she does that when she's sick at heart.

Dawsey and Amelia have decided to go to Louviers to try to persuade Mademoiselle Giraud to come to Guernsey. There was a heart-rending moment in her letter-Elizabeth used to help her go to sleep in the camp by planning their future in Guernsey. She said it sounded like heaven. The poor girl is due for some heaven: she has already been through h.e.l.l.

I am to look after Kit while they're away. I am so sad for her-she will never know her mother-except by hearsay. I wonder about her future, too, as she is now-officially-an orphan. Mr Dilwyn said there was plenty of time to decide. 'Let us leave well alone at the moment.' He's not like any other banker or trustee I've ever heard of, bless his heart.

All my love, Juliet From Juliet to Mark 17th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Mark,

I'm sorry that our conversation ended badly last night. It's very difficult to convey shades of meaning while roaring into the telephone. It's true-I don't want you to come this weekend. But it has nothing whatsoever to do with you. My friends have just been dealt a terrible blow. Elizabeth was the centre of the circle here, and the news of her death has shaken us all. How strange-when I picture you reading that sentence. I see you wondering why this woman's death has anything to do with me or you or your plans for the weekend. It does. I feel as though I've lost someone very close to me. I am in mourning.

Do you understand a little better now?

Yours, Juliet From Dawsey to Juliet Miss Juliet Ashton Grand Manoir, Cottage La Bouvee St Martin's, Guernsey

21st June 1946 June 1946

Dear Juliet,

We are here in Louviers, though we have not been to see Remy yet. The trip has tired Amelia very much and she wants to rest for a night before we go to the hospice.

It was a dreadful journey across Normandy. Piles of blasted stone walls and twisted metal line the roads in the towns. There are big gaps between buildings, and the ones left look like black, broken-off teeth. Whole fronts of houses are gone and you can see in, to the flowered wallpaper and the tilted bedsteads clinging somehow to the floors. I know now how fortunate Guernsey really was in the war.

Many people are still in the streets, removing bricks and stone in wheelbarrows and carts. They've made roads of heavy wire netting placed over rubble, and tractors are moving along them. Outside the towns are ruined fields with huge craters and broken hedges. It is grievous to see the trees. No big poplars, elms or chestnuts. What's left is pitiful, charred black and stunted-sticks without shade. Monsieur Piaget, who owns this pension, told us that the German engineers ordered the soldiers to fell whole woods and coppices. Then they stripped off the branches, smeared the tree trunks with creosote and stuck them upright in holes dug in the fields. The trees were called Rommel's Asparagus and were meant to keep Allied gliders from landing and soldiers from parachuting.

Amelia went to bed straight after supper, so I walked round Louviers. The town is pretty in places, though much of it was bombed and the Germans set fire to it when they retreated. I cannot see how it will become a living town again.

I came back and sat on the terrace until dark, thinking about tomorrow.

Give Kit a hug from me.

Yours ever, Dawsey From Amelia to Juliet 23rd June 1946 June 1946

Dear Juliet,

We met Remy yesterday. I felt unequal somehow to meeting her. But not, thank heavens, Dawsey. He calmly pulled up garden chairs, sat us down under a shady tree, and asked a nurse if we could have some tea.

I wanted Remy to like us, to feel safe with us. I wanted to learn more about Elizabeth, but I was frightened of Remy's fragility and Sister Touvier's admonitions. Remy is very small and far too thin. Her dark curly hair is cut close to her head and her eyes are enormous and haunted. You can see that she was a beauty in better times, but now-she is like gla.s.s. Her hands tremble a good deal, and she is careful to hold them in her lap. She welcomed us as much as she was able, but she was very reserved until she asked about Kit-had she gone to Sir Ambrose in London?

Dawsey told her that Sir Ambrose had died and that we are bringing up Kit. He showed her the photograph of you and Kit that he carries. She smiled then and said, 'She is Elizabeth's child. Is she strong?' I couldn't speak, thinking of our lost Elizabeth, but Dawsey said yes, very strong, and told her about Kit's pa.s.sion for ferrets. That made her smile again.

Remy is alone in the world. Her father died long before the war, in 1943, her mother was sent to Drancy for harbouring enemies of the government and later died in Auschwitz. Remy's two brothers are missing; she thought she saw one of them at a German station on her way to Ravensbriick, but he did not turn when she screamed his name. The other she has not seen since 1941. She believes that they, too, must be dead. I was glad Dawsey had the courage to ask her questions-Remy seemed to find relief in speaking of her family.

Eventually I broached the subject of Remy coming to Guernsey. She went quiet, and then explained that she was leaving the hospice very soon. The French government is offering allowances to concentration-camp survivors: for time lost, for permanent injuries, and for recognition of suffering. There are also stipends for those wishing to resume their education. The government will help Remy pay the rent of a room or share a flat with other survivors, so she has decided to go to Paris and seek an apprenticeship in a bakery.

She was adamant about her plans, so I left the matter there, but I don't believe Dawsey is willing to do so. He thinks that looking after Remy is a moral debt we owe to Elizabeth. Perhaps he is right, or perhaps it is simply a way to relieve our sense of helplessness. In any case, he has arranged to go back tomorrow and take Remy for a walk along the ca.n.a.l and visit a certain patisserie he saw in Louviers. Sometimes I wonder where our shy Dawsey has gone.

I feel well, though I am unusually tired-perhaps it is seeing my beloved Normandy so devastated. I will be glad to be home, my dear.

A kiss for you and Kit, Amelia From Juliet to Sidney 28th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Sidney,

What an inspired present you sent Kit-red satin tap shoes covered with sequins. Wherever did you find them? Where are mine?

Amelia has been tired since her return from France, so it seems best for Kit to stay with me, especially if Remy decides to come to Amelia's when she leaves the hospice. Kit seems to like the idea too-heaven be thanked! Kit knows now that her mother is dead. Dawsey told her. I'm not sure what she feels. She hasn't said anything, and I wouldn't dream of pressing her. I try not to hover unduly or give her special treats. After Mother and Father died, Reverend Simpless's cook brought me huge slices of cake, and then stood there, watching me mournfully while I tried to swallow. I hated her for thinking that cake would somehow make up for losing my parents. Of course, I was a wretched twelve-year-old, and Kit is only four-she would probably like some extra cake, but you understand what I mean.

Sidney, I am in trouble with my book. I have much of the data from the States' records and ma.s.ses of personal interviews-but I can't make them come together in a structure that pleases me. Straight chronology is too tedious. Shall I send my pages to you? They need a finer and more impersonal eye than mine. Would you have time to look them over now, or is the backlog from the Australian trip still so heavy? If it is, don't worry-I'm working anyway and something brilliant may yet come to me.

Love, Juliet

P. S. Thank you for the lovely cutting of Mark dancing with Ursula Pent. If you were hoping to send me into a jealous rage, you have failed. Especially as Mark had already telephoned to tell me that Ursula follows him about like a lovesick bloodhound. You see? The two of you do have something in common: you both want me to be miserable. Perhaps you could start a club.