Chapter 14
chapter
St. Helier
Across Queen Street, Fern stood in a queue. Ivy angled her umbrella to shield her face, and she ducked down Halkett Place.
How childish to avoid her own sister, but she still smarted from Fern’s mean trick on Christmas Day.
Ivy shook out her umbrella and entered the Central Market, lit by windows in the peaked ceiling and enlivened by ornate Victorian ironwork and the hum of conversations. Dozens of vendors sold vegetables and other goods—what goods were available under German rule.
With a huff, Ivy strode through the main concourse.
Fern had lied to Charlie so he would invite Gerrit and Bernardus. She’d sent Ivy to fetch Mrs. Galais so Ivy would be away when the men arrived.
The Christmas dinner had been planned, not to show hospitality to the lonely, but to embarrass and antagonize Ivy.
Her eyes burned, and she blinked rapidly as she passed the fountain in the middle of the market. A fortnight had passed. Why couldn’t she forgive Fern as she always did?
Because she always did.
Fern often did little things to addle Ivy, crafted well-worded defenses, sometimes blamed Ivy—and Ivy had always forgiven her, excused her, absorbed the blame.
Ivy passed through the doorway on the far side of the market, lifted her umbrella, and stopped. The rain created a shimmering pattern on the streets, the ugliness of asphalt and potholes and gravel obscured by the loveliness of water.
Everyone praised Ivy for seeing things others didn’t, but she’d never let herself see the streak of meanness in Fern, obscured by beauty and cleverness and humor and efficiency and episodes of sacrificial generosity.
But the meanness had always been there, and Ivy had ignored it in her quest for family harmony.
Heaviness pressed on her chest, and a sigh did nothing to dislodge it. She headed back toward Queen Street, minding her step with her worn-out shoes newly resoled in wood.
Spending Christmas with a man in a Todt uniform hurt far less than knowing Fern had orchestrated it as revenge for Ivy defying Fern’s authority.
Even that man in the Todt uniform had seemed to understand. He’d been anxious to leave, to not impose, to relieve her discomfort. Along with Thelma Galais’s cheerful diplomacy and Charlie’s righteous indignation, Gerrit’s consideration had soothed the sting somewhat.
Over and over, Gerrit’s actions spoke of a kindly nature, but kindliness with a spine.
He’d been direct in defending his decision.
Not that she agreed with him. His decision carried a hint of the mercenary, volunteering for safe and stimulating work, rather than being forced to do dangerous and unpleasant work.
Ivy turned onto Queen Street, one street away from where she’d seen Fern. Gerrit said Ivy wouldn’t know what she’d do unless she faced that choice. But she had faced that choice.
She opened the door to Carter’s Chemist’s.
No one was waiting to see Joan de Ferrers, and within minutes, Joan handed her a bottle. “Mr. Whistler’s digitalis. I understand he’s one of your patients, yes? You know where he lives.”
“Yes.” Ivy’s voice held steady, although she’d just received her first assignment for the ring since the Germans had rounded up two dozen escaped workers a month earlier.
Apparently Mr. Whistler was sheltering an escapee in need of care.
After exchanging pleasantries and shilling notes, Ivy departed the shop.
Two men in German Army uniforms strolled down Queen Street.
Ivy sucked in a breath and jammed the bottle deep in her coat pocket as if the label read “crime against the occupying forces.”
Surely a physician picking up a medication wouldn’t arouse suspicion, but the Germans had made it a crime not to report infractions of their orders. Ivy was defying the Germans not only by treating these poor men but by not reporting those who sheltered them.
Never in her life had she imagined herself a criminal.
She turned for home to fetch her bicycle and medical bag.
“Ivy!” Charlie loped across the street with a package, grinning, and he ducked under her umbrella. “Look. Fern sent me to the grocer for our special ration for the week—eight ounces of dried beans each.”
“Lovely.” She resisted the urge to wipe the raindrops from her brother’s face.
“I’m supposed to meet Fern at—oh, there she is.”
Ivy plastered on a smile.
Her sister approached under her umbrella, and her jaw lowered. “Ivy! You’re supposed to be halfway to St. Ouen’s village by now.”
Ivy waved to the west, toward Gloucester Street. “I was seeing a patient in hospital, then I picked up a medication.”
Fern’s mouth tilted to the side. “Now you’re late again. As always, you disregarded the timetable I made for you, ignored all my hard work.”
The sourness in Ivy’s stomach dissolved her usual apologies. “I’ll be leaving now.”
“I’m surprised you’re even making rounds. I thought home visits were beneath you.” Fern sniffed. “I can’t believe how many patients have told me you forced them to come to town.”
“Forced?” Ivy couldn’t force anyone if she tried. She’d merely explained the situation and offered a choice.
Fern jerked her head to the side. “I’ve done all I can to save the practice as Dad wanted, but you refuse to cooperate. You’ve left me with no choice but to take another job.”
Ivy gasped. “Another—”
“You can’t leave the practice,” Charlie said. “Ivy needs a receptionist.”
“I already hired a new girl. Aunt Ruby can train her.”
Ivy’s vision blurred, and no amount of blinking would clear it. “You hired someone without consulting me?”
“It’s hardly necessary. The new girl is quite capable.”
Ivy’s breath accelerated. This couldn’t be happening.
“Your new job?” Charlie said in a hard voice. “What is it?”
“Oh.” Fern adjusted the parcels in her arm and raised a smile.
A twitchy smile. “Do you remember that nice officer who allowed us to keep La Bliue Brise? He was so impressed with me—and my German—that he offered me a job on the spot. Every time I see him in town, he repeats his offer. And this time I accepted. I start Monday.”
Ivy’s chest hollowed out. “The officer? At the Field Commander’s headquarters?”
Charlie scowled at Fern. “You can’t work for the Germans.”
“Why not? You do.”
“I do not. It’s a Jersey boat.”
“Hired by the Germans.” Fern’s pretty chin edged high. “You mustn’t be self-righteous, you two. We do what we must, and for once, my abilities will be appreciated.”
Words clogged Ivy’s throat, stung her eyes. How could Fern do such a thing?
Fern released a sigh. “If only it weren’t necessary. Bill left me without provision, and you can’t keep the practice afloat. But my wages will help. Saving the practice is up to me.”
Ivy clutched her purse tight to her stomach. Her family was falling apart, and she couldn’t stop it.
St. Catherine’s Bay
Monday, January 18, 1943
Oberbauführer Ernst Schmeling studied the plans Gerrit had drawn for tunnels to be bored behind the artillery bunker at Strongpoint Verclut, guarding St. Catherine’s Bay.
Bernardus described the challenges with the rock formations in the area, and Schmeling complained about a load of cement lost earlier in the month when a cargo ship struck the rocks off Jersey’s Noirmont Point.
Over one hundred German soldiers on leave had perished.
Gerrit turned up the collar of his greatcoat against the chilly wind that buffeted around the promontory and frosted blue waves white with foam.
Two dozen foreign workers carried lumber from the breakwater toward the bunker, led by Demyan Marchenko.
Whenever possible, Gerrit slipped Marchenko food to share with his men, as he did with other squad leaders who spoke German or English. Marchenko spoke both well.
On the last portion of the journey, the squad of workers left the road and picked their way over rocky soil, with their feet bound in rags—or nothing.
Inside Gerrit’s boots, his toes curled, warm and protected.
A cry, and a man stumbled, struggled to keep the beam of lumber on his shoulder. His companion carrying the other end lost his grip. The beam swung to the side and banged a guard in the leg.
The guard fell, cursed. The beam thudded to the ground.
Those men would be beaten.
Gerrit darted around Schmeling.
“Don’t.” Schmeling grabbed Gerrit’s arm. “The guards will handle this.”
That’s what Gerrit feared.
The guard rose, cursed, truncheon raised.
Marchenko stepped between the guard and his men, and he lifted his hands. “Let him be. It was a simple accident.”
“Out of my way.” The guard shook his truncheon. “They are lazy, wicked—”
“They are neither.” Marchenko spoke with gentle authority. “They are cold, tired, and have no shoes. They are fed like mice but are expected to work like oxen. Yet see, they are already back at work. And they are sorry.” He called to the workers in Ukrainian.
“Tak! Tak!” The men wrestled their beam onto a pile near the bunker entrance.
“Yes, they are sorry and promise to work twice as hard. If it happens again, I will say nothing.” Marchenko tipped his head toward the truncheon.
The guard growled, but the truncheon lowered. “This time only.”
“That is fair. Thank you, comrade.” Marchenko headed down toward the breakwater.
A rumble rolled in Schmeling’s throat. “That Russian is playing a dangerous game.”
“He plays it well.” Bernardus gestured to the workers. “Those men will now work harder than if they’d been beaten.”
“Nein.” Schmeling’s pale eyes turned to slits. “He is too proud, stands too tall. He needs more respect for his superiors.”
In no way was Marchenko inferior. “I’ll talk to him. Excuse me, Herr Oberbauführer.” Gerrit jogged down the slope before Schmeling could stop him.
At the base of the breakwater, Marchenko stood in a queue before a lorry stacked with lumber.
“Good afternoon, Marchenko.” Gerrit spoke in English, which few on the worksite understood.
“Good afternoon, van der Zee.”