Welcome to my blog tour for The Girl from the Channel Islands which is been hosted by Graydon House -HARLEQUIN – Trade Publishing (U.S. & Canada)
First of I want to say a huge thank you to the publisher Graydon House -HARLEQUIN – Trade Publishing (U.S. & Canada) , the author Jenny Lecoat , and to NetGalley for inviting me to join the blog tour for this book as well as letting me read and review it. As soon as I say it I knew that once again I would say yes because I love reading historical Fiction that is based on events that took place doing WW2 , the only down side to that is that it has to do be done in a way that it fellows these four things that I look for which is :
And with this book it checked everything off that list, in fact this is the second historical fiction WW 2 based book that I've read this year which means its one of my favorite books. The book is well writing and makes you feel all the emotions that the characters feel, she also brings to life the day to day life of the characters and what they went though,their bravery in the face of danger , of friends made and of lives lost as well as loved ones, it also brings to light how the some of the Germans treated the Jews and the people of the Channel Islands , and how one German was different then all of the rest that he would do anything to help the girl that he was in love with even if that meant his own death. So if your looking for something that feel the all the emotions and a story that's filled with tension, suspense, revenge, friendship, love, kindness then you need to check this one out.
Jersey, Channel Islands
Summer 1940
THE SUN’S HEAT HAD BEGUN TO MELLOW, AND the gulls were cruising for their
final catch of the day when the siren sounded. Its wail climbed and fell, calling out over the
jumbled slate roofs and church spires of the town, and across the patchwork of potato fields
beyond. In St. Aubin’s bay, where the waves lapped and fizzed on the sand, its warning finally
reached Hedy’s ears as she lay dozing by the sea wall, and woke her with a jolt.
Rising in slow motion, she scanned the sky. Now she could also hear a faint, tinny whine
in the east. She tried to steady her breathing. Perhaps it was another false alarm? These
warnings had become a daily event these past two weeks, each time the reconnaissance
planes merely circling, then disappearing back out to sea with cameras crammed full of blurry
images of main roads and harbor walls. But this time something was different. The engine
sound contained a note of brutish intent, and now several tiny black dots were emerging in the
distant blue. The whine became a hum, and the hum a strident drone. Then she knew. This was
no reconnaissance mission. This was the start.
For days now, the islanders had watched the black smoke rise and mushroom on the
French coast, felt the vibration of the distant blasts pulse through their bellies and rattle their
bones. Women had spent hours counting and recounting the tinned foods in their larders, while
the men squashed into banks to withdraw the family savings. Children had yelled their
complaints as gas masks were forced over their heads. By then, all hope had vanished. There
was no one here to deter the aggressors, nothing between them and their shimmering prize but
flat blue water and an empty sky. And now the planes were on their way. Hedy could see them
clearly now, still some distance away, but from the outline she guessed they were Stukas. Dive-
bombers.
She spun around, looking for shelter. The nearest beachside café was almost a mile
away. Stopping only to grab her wicker bag, she sprinted for the stone steps leading to the
walkway above,and took them in three bounds. At the top she scoured the promenade; a
hundred meters toward First Tower was a small seafront shelter. It contained nothing but a
single wooden bench on each of its four exposed sides, but it would have to do. Hedy hurtled
toward it, grazing her shin as she mistimed the leap onto the low plinth, and threw herself
against the bench. A moment later she was joined by a panic-stricken young mother, probably
not much older than herself, gripping a small white-faced boy by the wrist. By now the planes
were over St. Helier harbor, one arcing across the bay toward them, the noise of the engine so
thunderous that it drowned out the boy’s screams as the woman pushed him to the ground. The
violent rat-a-tat of machine-gun fire stung Hedy’s ears as several bullets found the sea wall and
zinged off in random directions. A second later, a distant explosion shook the shelter so hard
Hedy thought the roof might collapse. “Was that a bomb?” The woman’s face was ashen
beneath her tan.
“Yes. Near the harbor, I think.”
The woman gave her a brief, confused look. It was the ac- cent, Hedy knew—even in a
moment like this it still set her apart, marked her out as an alien. But the woman’s attention
quickly turned back to her child.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, “what have we done? My husband said we should have
evacuated when we had the chance.” Her eyes fixed on the sky. “Do you think we should have
gone?”
Hedy said nothing, but followed her companion’s gaze upward. She thought about her
employers, the Mitchells, staggering onto that filthy, inadequate cargo boat with their screaming
child, and nothing but a change of underwear and a few provisions stuffed into a brown packing
case. At this moment, with the aroma of burning aviation fuel in her nostrils, she would have
given anything to be with them. Her knuckles turned yellow on the slatted bench. Corkscrews of
charcoal smoke drifted across the bay, and she could hear the little boy beside her sobbing.
Hedy swallowed hard and focused on the questions bouncing around her brain like a pin- ball.
How long now before the Germans landed? Would they round people up, stand them in front of
walls to be shot? If they came for her, then…? There was no point finishing that thought. Anton,
the only person on this island she could call a friend, would be powerless to help her. The
shelter vibrated again, and she felt its fragility.
Hedy remained crouched silently, listening to the planes loop and dive and the crack of
explosions a mile away, until at last the sound of the engines began to fade into the distance.
An aging gentleman with disheveled white hair stumbled toward them, and stopped to peer into
the shelter.
“The planes have gone,” he called. “Try to get home as quickly as you can. It can’t be
long before they get here.” Hedy’s eyes fixed on his jacket, which was covered in dust and
uneven patches of blood. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine,” the man assured her. “Old fellow walking
near the harbor took a bullet in the leg—we had to get him to the hospital.” “Are there many
hurt? Or…?” Hedy glanced toward the
little boy, not wanting to finish the question.
“Some, yes.” The man’s voice faltered a little, and Hedy felt a surge of anguish. She
pressed her fist to her lips and swallowed again before he continued: “They bombed a line of
potato trucks waiting to unload at the harbor. I mean, for God’s sake, what’s the point of that?”
He shook his head and gestured toward his destination. “Hurry now.”
The man hastened away. Hedy hauled her shaking body to its feet, wished the woman
good luck and set off along the promenade toward the town, wondering how on earth she would
get back to the Mitchells’—assuming the house was still there. She tried to hurry, but her skinny
legs felt weak. She imagined Hemingway cowering beneath the sofa in the empty living room,
his gray feline fur stiff with terror. Already she was half regretting disobeying Mr. Mitchell’s
instruction to have him put down. The animal’s trusting eyes had melted her heart at the door of
the vet’s surgery. Now she wasn’t even sure if she’d be able to feed herself, never mind a cat.
By the time she reached the outskirts of St. Helier town she could hear the bells of the
ambulances and the random shouts of desperate men trying to work as a team. Smoke rose in
missing, some wandering aimlessly, and one old couple on a bench, sobbing. Hedy walked on,
forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other, deliberately edging her mind to- ward reality.
The seas around the island were probably already full of U-boats. Soon she would once again
be surrounded by those gray-green uniforms and hear the barking of orders. She pictured the
bang on the door, Wehrmacht hands grabbing at her elbow, the house abandoned with dirty
dishes still on the table. Anything was possible now. She recalled only too well the way the
Germans had behaved in Vienna.
Especially toward Jews.
She pressed on, pushing her body weight forward, willing herself home. She needed to
reach Hemingway and give him a hug.
Excerpted from The Girl from the Channel Islands by Jenny Lecoat, Copyright © 2020 by Jenny
Lecoat Published by Graydon House Books
