Chapter 7
chapter
St. Helier
In the hold of the SS Ormer, Gerrit braced his feet wide as the ship rocked in rough weather. He tore off a bit of bread, sliced a sliver of cheese, and handed it to the next worker in the queue.
The man’s craggy face lit up, and joyful words burst forth.
“Nyet,” Gerrit whispered. “Nein.” He slammed a finger to his lips, then mimed chewing, swallowing, and frowning.
But excitement bubbled among the bags of cement.
Although Bernardus had insisted this was a bad idea, he’d sweet-talked a lady in the hotel kitchen into giving him the bread and cheese, supposedly for his own lunch, and now he stood on deck, chatting with Charlie Picot, ready to call “Ahoy there!” if an OT officer approached.
Gerrit passed bread and cheese to the next man and repeated his miming.
A wicked scar slashed through the worker’s cheek and eyebrow. “You would like us to finish this before returning to deck, yes?” He spoke in fluent German.
Gerrit blinked in surprise. “Yes, thank you. They must be quiet, must not discuss this, even amongst themselves, must not look pleased.”
“Understood.” The worker glanced around with quick intelligent eyes. “One each?”
Gerrit turned his shoulder to the press of men so he could keep distributing food. “Yes. This is all I have—one loaf of bread, one block of cheese.”
The worker spoke to the men in a Slavic tongue, and the men responded with murmurs of understanding.
“I will stay with you, explain, help.”
“Thank you.” Gerrit held out the cheese and knife.
“Nein!” He flung up both hands. “If the guards catch me with a weapon . . .”
Gerrit winced. He’d seen what the guards did at the smallest offense, and he handed his helper the loaf of bread instead.
Together, they distributed the feeble snack.
“You are from Russia?” Gerrit asked.
“Ukraine. All the men in this squad are.” He wore a Soviet officer’s uniform, knees worn through, one sleeve hanging loose, one red epaulette dangling. He repeated instructions in Ukrainian in a firm tone.
Grateful gazes met Gerrit’s, but the workers assumed a neutral expression, obeying the officer as they stuffed the morsels into their dirty mouths.
“I cannot do this every day,” Gerrit said. “I may never be able to do this again. But I’ll do what I can.”
“If we are discovered, the consequences would be bad for all of us. Even you.”
“My friend is keeping watch.”
The officer cast a glance up the ladder. “You are new, yes? You still seem surprised by the actions of your people.”
“I’m not German. I’m Dutch. My name is Gerrit van der Zee. And I’m no Nazi.”
“Lt. Demyan Marchenko.” He scanned Gerrit’s uniform, not with the repugnance Dr. Ivy Picot had shown but with detachment, as if making allowance for compromise in times of war.
The latter cut as deeply as the former.
Marchenko passed out the last piece of bread. “Whoever you are, you are our comrade, and we thank you.”
With his lips pressed tight, Gerrit passed out the final slivers of cheese.
Marchenko brushed crumbs from his fingers into his palm and cupped his hand to his mouth.
Not one crumb littered the deck of the hold, and that wrenched through Gerrit.
Marchenko shouldered the last bag of concrete, gave Gerrit a strong nod, and climbed out of the hold.
Gerrit pulled in a breath over his roughened throat and checked the hold for any evidence. With his clipboard and the empty bread bag in hand, he returned to the deck, where Bernardus and Charlie were laughing about something.
Bernardus raised a pale eyebrow at Gerrit. “Your inspection went well?”
“Indeed.”
“Come along, then. Goodbye, Charlie.” Bernardus shook the boy’s hand. “We’re going out to Elizabeth Castle.”
Charlie sent a wistful smile toward the bay. He shared his sister’s striking coloring. “I used to love running around the castle, pretending to be a soldier.”
Now the Germans had taken over the castle’s original fortifications and added modern ones.
Gerrit and Bernardus said goodbye and strolled down the pier and onto the Esplanade, staying within the wire fencing that kept the civilians away from the harbor and beaches. Clouds darkened the southwest horizon, and wind tossed the clouds closer to the island.
Bernardus went down the steps to the beach.
Gerrit gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Riedel’s supposed to meet us here.”
“He’ll catch up.” Bernardus kept walking, sand kicking out from under his black boots.
Gerrit trotted down the steps and crossed the gentle slope of beach to the narrow concrete causeway that led to the castle at low tide.
Ahead of them, the castle rose in a stony mound with a mixture of Elizabethan and Napoleonic era architecture. The Germans were adding sleek modern concrete batteries and observation posts that didn’t belong.
Wind heavy with sea spray tugged at Gerrit’s overseas cap. Although tempted to allow it to steal the bit of brown cloth with red piping that labeled him as a Nazi, Gerrit stuffed it in his pocket.
Holding his own cap in hand, Bernardus looked back over his shoulder. “Charlie Picot is doing us a favor.”
“Yes?”
“He’s delivering a letter to my girlfriend in Saint-Malo.”
Gerrit stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“Keep walking. After Riedel joins us, we’ll no longer be able to talk.”
Gerrit jogged to catch up over the damp sand on the causeway. “Civilians aren’t allowed to carry mail to France. I read it in the local newspaper.”
“Charlie knows. He doesn’t mind.”
“You didn’t tell him what the letter is about, did—”
“Of course not.”
“Then you’re involving him unwittingly.” Gerrit’s arms swung hard. “Even worse. He won’t know what he’s walking into. If he’s caught with a letter—you could get him killed.”
“The letter is innocuous. I told my girlfriend I was posted to Jersey, not near Saint-Malo as I’d hoped, and I won’t have leave for six months. I said she’s free to find someone new.”
Air puffed out Gerrit’s cheeks, and he blew it out. “Letting the network know why they haven’t heard from us. And never will.”
“Yes.”
“Send it by post. Leave Charlie out of it.”
“I don’t want the censors reading it in case they suspect my contact.”
A groan rumbled in Gerrit’s throat. “All the more reason not to involve Charlie. He can’t even be sixteen.”
“He’s fifteen. I told him I didn’t want the censors reading my letter because it was sappy and sentimental, and I made it as sappy and sentimental as I could stomach.”
“He’s fifteen.” Gerrit glared at his friend. “Fifteen, Bernardus.”
“Which makes him look innocent.” Bernardus kept his square face trained on the castle.
“But he’s smart. He was one of the top boys at Victoria College, the best boys’ school on the island, but he quit to help his family.
His parents evacuated to England, and the elder Dr. Picot left the practice in his daughter’s hands.
It isn’t doing well, and Charlie wants to help. ”
A kind and selfless boy. Yet another reason not to risk his safety.
Bernardus’s mouth puckered on one side. “I have some sad news about the family though. Charlie’s sister is married.”
A kick to Gerrit’s chest, which made no sense. Despite the strange and wonderful affinity he’d felt with Ivy Picot, she was appropriately disgusted by his uniform. “Dr. Picot is married? But she uses her maiden name.”
Bernardus gave Gerrit’s arm a light whack. “The other sister. The stunner.”
“Oh, that one.” Gerrit had seen her first, of course. A face that could grace the cover of any magazine.
Bernardus chatted about what Charlie had told him about that sister, the older sister—Fern was her name—and her husband and sons.
Gerrit’s thoughts trailed to the younger sister with the sweet face that had drawn him. She’d been talking to the elderly lady beside her, not with the condescension of youth or even the oversight of a physician, but with genuine interest and affection.
Which had drawn Gerrit even more. Then she’d turned to him with those large dark eyes set in a face that was all softness—round cheeks and chin and a little round mouth. And she’d kept looking at him, and he’d wanted to keep looking at her forever.
Dr. Ivy Picot. To become a physician, strength and determination and courage had to lie behind all that sweetness and softness. And he’d liked her very much.
Then she’d recoiled at the sight of his uniform, and he’d gained deep respect for her, even as he’d resigned himself to the fact that she’d never again direct that sweetness his way.
“Kroon!” A man’s voice rose from behind them. “Van der Zee!”
“Don’t look,” Bernardus said in a sharp tone. “Anything else to discuss?”
The letter had already been given to Charlie, so Gerrit sighed and shook his head. With that letter passed their last hope of helping the Allies. He and Bernardus had gone from brave freedom fighters infiltrating the enemy stronghold to sniveling collaborators building that stronghold.
Nothing could be done. Quitting was impossible. Escape even more so. And sabotage would lead to torture and death with nothing to show for it.
“Kroon!” Riedel called, closer now. “Van der Zee.”
Bernardus turned and waved at the officer. “There you are, Herr Bauführer. I thought you’d gone on before us.”
At least Bernardus hadn’t included Gerrit in his lie.
Riedel jogged up, breathing hard, his belly shaking. He wiped sweat from under his nose, then shielded his eyes to study the castle. “What a sight, ja? Not as magnificent as the castles in Germany, but it’s still impressive.”
Even more so up close.
The men climbed the stone ramp from the seabed to the wall of rough granite blocks, mottled with golden lichen.
Two German guards in the gateway examined each man’s Dienstbuch—paybook—that served as identification papers and service documentation and more.
Once admitted, the men passed through a narrow ward bound by granite walls interspersed with arched openings filled with guns. The wind picked up as they went, ruffling clumps of grass in the mud beside the path.
They passed through a stone gateway stamped with a royal coat of arms.
On the other side, a crew of OT workers was setting up wooden framing in preparation for the pouring of concrete for yet another bunker.
As soon as Schmeling arrived, Gerrit, Bernardus, and Riedel would review the plans for the bunker and start calculations for any changes that needed to be made.
Unlike the Ukrainian workers on the docks, these men had meat on their bones and adequate clothing. Oddly enough, most of them wore bowler hats.
They were speaking Spanish. After the Spanish Civil War, many of the communist Spanish Republicans had fled for their lives to France, where they’d been interned.
When the Germans invaded France, the Spaniards were given a choice—return to Spain, where they would be executed—or volunteer with Organisation Todt.
At least their classification as volunteers granted them more freedom and benefits than the slave workers.
Organisation Todt treated their fellow Germans best. Those they considered Aryans—like the Dutch and Scandinavians—were treated fairly well. Those from western Europe were treated with moderation. And Jews and those from eastern Europe were abused.
The wrongness of it all. The cruelty. It grated and swelled in his chest.
Schmeling had yet to arrive at the construction site, so Gerrit, Bernardus, and Riedel waited to the side. And Gerrit observed. Observed the men working hard and with good cheer.
He could no longer contain it, so he assumed an innocent air. “These men work harder than the Ukrainians and Russians.”
“Ja, even though this castle serves as a penal colony for our workers.” Riedel wrinkled his broad nose. “But then these men are not lazy Slavs.”
“They are also well-fed and properly clothed.” Gerrit closed his mouth before mentioning how they weren’t being beaten. “That must help them work harder.”
Riedel’s eyes narrowed in thought, but Bernardus shot Gerrit a look of death.
“Possibly,” Riedel said. “But it isn’t our concern. The guards and camp commandants know what’s best. They know how to work with Slavs.”
Gerrit sniffed and fiddled with the cuff of his jacket. “I heard a guard say they’re little better than beasts.”
“They would know.”
Gerrit tugged at that cuff. “If you want good milk and eggs and pork, you treat your beasts with care.”
A sharp inhalation, and understanding glimmered in Riedel’s brown eyes.
“Gerrit, come see the view.” Bernardus strode across to the far wall.
“Excuse me,” Gerrit said to Riedel, and he joined his friend by the wall facing east, toward the docks, not the most outstanding of views.
“What are you doing?” Bernardus glared at him. “Stop it.”
“I can’t stand by while—”
“We can fight only one battle at a time.”
Gerrit’s sigh tumbled in the darkening air. “We aren’t fighting even one battle.”
The starch went out of Bernardus’s spine. “I know. I—I’m sorry.”
Bernardus didn’t need more guilt, so Gerrit offered a slight smile. “I understand. No use dying in a battle we can’t begin to win.”
“Yes.”
Across the narrow grounds, Riedel crossed his arms and studied the Spanish workers.
“I may have swayed Riedel’s thinking.”
“Don’t trust him, Gerrit. He’s a Nazi.”
“I’ll be careful.” But careful words could still sway hearts.