Chapter 9
chapter
St. Helier
Gerrit matched Bernardus’s brisk pace along the Esplanade through St. Helier.
Zeal for the Lord had once propelled Gerrit to church, as it now propelled Bernardus.
Gerrit’s zeal had cooled, but he kept attending church and doing the right things, as if to show the Lord that he wasn’t the one who had slacked.
Still, church wasn’t without its appeal. Last week, Bernardus had chosen the pew behind the Picot family so he could chat with Charlie, leaving Gerrit behind Dr. Ivy Picot with her shiny black hair curling beneath the rim of her dark green hat.
Ivy had been deep in conversation with Mrs. Galais—who had been shockingly friendly with Gerrit and Bernardus since Charlie had introduced them as his friends.
On Sunday, Ivy had handed the older woman a pencil drawing of a house.
Not as Gerrit would have drawn it. Not unless that house truly had walls bowed out like cheeks or a roof tilted like a hat worn at a saucy angle or an open door like a smiling mouth or light in the windows like sparkling eyes.
“How precious.” Mrs. Galais had held the drawing over the pew. “Look, Gerrit. Ivy drew my house.”
“It’s very nice. I like it.” The whimsy of it did appeal to him. “I would have drawn simply what I saw.”
“I did draw what I saw.” Ivy didn’t face him, and her tone chilled.
“Then you see far more than I do.”
Mrs. Galais’s eyes sparkled like the windows in Ivy’s drawing. “She’s a marvel, our Ivy. Isn’t she?”
From what little Gerrit had seen of her, she was indeed, but his tongue turned to stone. The rector had relieved his discomfort by starting the service.
In the blustery autumn air, Gerrit and Bernardus passed the elegant Pomme d’Or Hotel. Red swastika flags marked the building as requisitioned for use as German naval headquarters.
In front of the Southampton Hotel next door, Charlie Picot stood on the damp pavement in a homburg and a gray overcoat two sizes too big.
He marched up to Gerrit and Bernardus. “Come with me to the Ormer.”
“Now?” Gerrit frowned at the boy. “We’re on our way to church.”
“You won’t mind being late when you see.” Excitement danced in Charlie’s dark brown eyes. “Please come.”
Bernardus shrugged at Gerrit, inquiring. Gerrit shrugged back, accepting.
“You’ll be glad.” Charlie strode toward the harbor. “You have your passes, yes?”
“Yes.” They couldn’t go anywhere without their paybooks.
Guards ringed the harbor, but when the three men showed their papers, they were admitted.
“No one’s on board.” Charlie led them up the gangplank onto the Ormer and into the cabin, where he sat on a wooden bench. “About a month ago, you gave me a letter for your girlfriend in Saint-Malo. A few days later, I delivered it.”
“Thank you.” Bernardus lowered himself to the bench across from Charlie.
With his insides squirming, Gerrit joined his friend and schooled his face to neutral.
Charlie clasped his hands together between his knees. “On Friday, we docked in Saint-Malo. A girl greeted me at the pier with a . . . a kiss.” His cheeks darkened to pink.
Gerrit smiled. “It is the French way.”
“No. Here.” Charlie tapped his own lips, and the pink turned to red.
Bernardus chuckled. “A pleasant surprise, yes?”
Charlie bobbled a nod. “She took me by the arm—I was too stunned to protest—and she led me to a house. Not the same house as before, but the same lady was there. Your girlfriend, Bernardus.”
The resistance contact. Gerrit held his breath. With great effort, he avoided glancing at Bernardus.
Charlie pulled an envelope from inside his coat. “She asked me to deliver this to you.”
“Thank you.” Bernardus stretched across for the letter.
Charlie didn’t surrender it. “She said you were to hold it to the light but not too close.”
A frown pulled at Gerrit’s lips, but he resisted. Why would they need to hold it to the light?
Charlie pressed the envelope into Bernardus’s hand. “She made me repeat it, but she refused to answer my questions.”
“Thank you. I’ll do as she asked.” Bernardus tucked the envelope into his greatcoat, but a stiffness to his tone said he didn’t understand the instructions either.
“You know what I think?” Charlie grinned and leaned closer. “It’s in secret ink.”
Gerrit sucked in a breath. “Secret—”
“When you were boys, did you ever write a message in lemon juice? You could read it by holding it close to a flame. Here.” Charlie pulled a matchbox and a candle stub from his pocket. “Let’s see what it says.”
Bernardus shot Gerrit an alarmed look. “Thank you, but it isn’t nearly that exciting. My girlfriend uses paper with a watermark. You can see it if you hold it to the light.”
Charlie let out a scoffing sound. “Nonsense. The meeting was very hush-hush. Your girlfriend is in the resistance, and so are you.”
Gerrit’s blood chilled, crackled.
“You’re mistaken,” Bernardus said in a measured tone. “You mustn’t say things like that in public, or you’ll get yourself killed.”
“It all makes sense now.” Charlie struck the match. “You aren’t like the others. Bernardus, you just warned me. A real Nazi would have had me arrested.”
No color remained in Bernardus’s cheeks. “I don’t care to see young men come to—”
“And Gerrit.” Charlie held the match to the blackened wick. “You fed the Todt workers.”
“I . . .” Truth clogged his throat.
A flame wiggled above the stub of the candle. “Your sack was full when you went into the hold and empty when you came out, and the hold smelled of Camembert. You’re good men, both of you. Why did you join OT?”
“We already told you.” Bernardus scooted forward to stand.
Charlie’s face lit up. “I think you joined to spy. It’s fantastic. And I think your resistance friends want me to be your courier.”
Absolutely not, and Gerrit’s muscles clenched. He should leave. They should both leave. But Bernardus had also frozen in place, halfway out of his seat.
Charlie waved his hand toward shore. “Whatever you’re spying on, you have no way to send the information off the island, do you? But I do. And I want to do so.”
A million arguments swarmed in Gerrit’s mind.
“You think I’m too young.” Charlie’s smile hardened. “But it makes me look innocent. Same reason they sent Marie to fetch me. Simply a pretty girl meeting her boyfriend at the docks.”
“That’s quite enough.” Bernardus stood. “Please don’t spin stories. You’ll land in prison, and you’ll get us arrested too.”
Gerrit also stood. “We’re late to church.”
Charlie didn’t rise, and he huffed. “You can trust me. I’m smart, and I’m discreet.
I brought you somewhere private to deliver the letter, yes?
And I’m a physician’s son. I’ve watched my father and sister discuss patients whilst guarding their privacy.
And the three of us—we’re already known to be acquainted.
We even have a place to meet—at church.”
Bernardus stepped toward the cabin door. “Speaking of church, we are indeed late.”
Charlie bolted to his feet, and the flame in his eyes matched the candle in his hand.
“I know you’re worried about me getting arrested, tortured, killed.
I understand. But I want to do something that matters.
My friends—they play pranks on the Germans.
They slash tires and siphon petrol, but it doesn’t truly matter.
They could get arrested and killed for something of no account. But this—this would matter.”
Bernardus opened the cabin door. “For your sake, we will forget we ever had this conversation, yes, Gerrit?”
“Yes. You should too,” he said to Charlie.
The boy’s upper lip curled in frustration. “I want to help. I hate how the Germans treat people—the Todt workers, the Jews, the deportees. Please let me help.”
Gerrit’s chest hurt for Charlie. He also wanted to do something that mattered. More than anything, he wanted to draw those maps and send them to the Allies. But not at the expense of a young man’s life.
Gerrit stepped closer. “Your sisters need you alive.”
The flame died in Charlie’s eyes.
With one breath, Gerrit blew out the candle.
The Very Reverend Matthew Le Marinel spoke the final words of the benediction, and Ivy opened her eyes.
“Oh, good.” Thelma Galais beamed her smile toward the back of the sanctuary. “Our nice young men came. It isn’t like them to miss church.”
Nice young men? Surely she didn’t mean . . .
Ivy followed her line of sight to the back pew on the right, where that Mr. van der Zee was looking straight at her.
She whirled to face front and gathered her Bible and purse. Nothing nice about a man in Organisation Todt, but she held her tongue so she wouldn’t disillusion the sweet woman who saw good in everyone.
“Your brother came too.”
“He did?” Charlie had been away with the SS Ormer for several days.
Charlie made his way down the aisle, with an unusual element of restraint in his smile.
“I’m glad you’re home again.” Fern stood and pecked him on the cheek.
Ivy did likewise. “What’s wrong, Charlie?”
“Wrong? Nothing.” He widened his smile, most surely to prove his point, but actually disproving it. Disappointment or frustration flickered in the background.
The little boy who’d poured out his heart to her was becoming a man, so she managed a smile in return.
“Excuse me.” Fern slipped past Charlie to chat with her friends.
“And I see Bertie Nicolle.” Charlie gave Ivy a polite nod and joined one of his friends from Victoria College in the back pew on the left. He passed the two Dutchmen without even a glance.
Good. Perhaps he’d seen their true nature. Had that caused her brother’s disappointment?
If it didn’t require meeting the collaborator’s gaze, she’d glare at him.
“Did I tell you?” Mrs. Galais adjusted her eyeglasses. “I received a postcard from Frank and Edna.”
“You did? How are they?” About a month before, the International Red Cross had promised to watch over the welfare of the deportees from the Channel Islands—over a thousand from Jersey and nearly a thousand from Guernsey and Sark.
“They’re doing well, from what I can tell.” In her dark blue coat, Mrs. Galais led the way up the aisle. “They’re at an internment camp in southern Germany, as the Red Cross said. They’re comfortable and well-fed but asked me to send their warm clothes.”
“They could take so few possessions. I’m glad you’re allowed to send more now.” Outside, the dove-gray clouds had parted, and sunshine poured through the ragged hole and dripped liquid light on the churchyard. The scent of damp flagstone and moss filled the air.
“Oh!” A flurry of dark blue, a leg swinging up in the air, a thump.
“Mrs. Galais!” Ivy dropped to her knees beside her friend. “Are you hurt?”
Mrs. Galais lay sprawled on her back, her hat askew. “Oh dear.”
“Where do you hurt?” Ivy felt behind her head—no blood, thank goodness. “Did you hit your head?”
“No, no.” Her left hand fumbled for her right shoulder.
A man knelt on Mrs. Galais’s other side. “May I help you up?”
“Oh, you dear man.” Mrs. Galais stretched her hand to him.
To Gerrit van der Zee—who took that hand.
Ivy’s stomach contracted, and she raised an arm. Not to shove him away—if only she could!—but to delay the assistance. “I need to examine her first.”
“Yes, Dr. Picot.” A light Dutch accent—and respect—lilted in his deep voice.
And respect radiated from the clear blue-green of his eyes, so clear she could see straight through.
Ivy wrenched her gaze back to Mrs. Galais, and she gently palpated her right shoulder. “Tell me when it hurts. Are you feeling pain anywhere else?”
“Only in my dignity.” Mrs. Galais felt around her face. “Oh dear. My glasses.”
“Here they are, ma’am. I’ll get your purse.” Mr. van der Zee handed her the glasses and pushed up to standing on long, lanky legs, with a stumble as if a youth still unaccustomed to the length of those legs.
Ivy huffed. Those legs were encased in Nazi brown.
Parishioners gathered about, all eager to help their beloved Mrs. Galais.
“Such a fuss for nothing.” Mrs. Galais tutted her tongue.
Nothing felt amiss in the woman’s shoulder, so Ivy—and Charlie—helped her to sitting.
“I took most of the fall in my bum.” Mrs. Galais spoke low and close, with amusement in her hazel eyes. “Despite rationing, it’s still amply padded.”
Ivy chuckled. “You may have some bruising tomorrow, but don’t hesitate to ring for—”
“For any reason at all, precious Ivy.” Mrs. Galais sat taller and stretched out one hand. “Dearest Gerrit, will you and Charlie please help me to my feet? What a blessing to have strong young men at my beck and call.”
Ivy’s jaw dangled, but what could she do? The Dutch collaborator and Ivy’s darling brother helped the Jerseywoman to her feet.
Then Mr. van der Zee handed over the purse with a slight bow. “May I escort you home?”
“That would be—”
“Most unnecessary.” Ivy scrambled to her feet and hooked her arm through Mrs. Galais’s. “We thank you for your help, but Charlie and I will see her home.”
“I will too.” From behind, Fern brushed off Mrs. Galais’s coat.
“Very well.” Mr. van der Zee picked up Ivy’s own purse and Bible—at least she’d thought to place her Bible on top of her purse—and handed them to her. “I understand.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ivy took her belongings.
Her hand brushed his. Her gaze locked with his.
Warmth. Connection.
Ivy screwed her eyes shut and wiped her hand on her coat. “Come along, Mrs. Galais.”
On Hill Street, the pavement allowed only two to walk abreast. Since Mrs. Galais’s gait and pace had returned to normal, Ivy dropped behind Charlie and Mrs. Galais.
“What happened in the churchyard?” Fern walked close to Ivy’s side with an inquisitive spark in her eyes.
“Mrs. Galais slipped on—”
“No, no. With you and Gerrit van der Zee.”
“With . . . ?” Ivy’s jaw drifted open, and she snapped it shut. “Nothing. He insisted on helping, and I couldn’t stop him.”
A little laugh danced in the air. “Oh, sweet Ivy. Can’t you see? He’s smitten with you.”
“Smitten!”
Charlie and Mrs. Galais glanced back at her.
Ivy assumed an unassuming smile until they faced forward again. “That’s utter rubbish,” she whispered to her sister.
“No, that is rubbish. He can’t take his eyes off you in church. Now, he may not be the handsomest of men and he’s rather ungainly, but he’d provide well for you.”
Ivy’s feet glued to the pavement. “Fern! He wears a German uniform.”
“Charlie thinks well of him. And isn’t it time we looked past the uniforms? The Germans are here to stay.”
In her mind, Ivy saw a veil of inky black descend over the oak-brown of Fern’s eyes.
Ivy blew out a breath and strode after Charlie and Mrs. Galais.
Why was she suddenly seeing darkness in her own sister and light in the enemy? Perhaps Ivy was the one who needed eyeglasses.