Chapter 17
chapter
St. Peter’s Parish
In a shed at Charlie’s uncle’s farm, Charlie handed his work jacket to Gerrit. “Why do you want to see? It’s poor quality.”
“Is it lined?” Sitting cross-legged, Gerrit turned the jacket inside out. “Yes, thank goodness.”
“Fern insisted I buy lined jackets, even for work. They last longer, she said. She also made me buy two, in case one gets wet.”
Fern had her flaws, but she’d unwittingly aided Gerrit’s plan. He laid the latest silk diagram across the jacket back—it fit. “If we opened the lining, we could insert the diagram, maybe pin it from the shoulders so it doesn’t bunch.”
Charlie’s eyes lit up in the dimness of the shed. “No one could see it.”
Bernardus jabbed a finger toward Charlie. “You said you have two jackets. Are they the same color? Same cut?”
“Yes.”
Bernardus slapped his knees. “Excellent. You can exchange jackets. One in Jersey, one in France. Your cutout will remove the map and send the jacket back in your next visit.”
“That’s brilliant,” Charlie said.
It would work well. “Do either of you know how to sew? I don’t.”
“No,” Bernardus and Charlie murmured in unison.
Gerrit inspected the seam. “The stitching is so small, I can hardly see it. Even if I could open it, how would I close it again so it looks like this?”
“We’ll find someone who sews,” Charlie said.
“No.” The word shot from Bernardus’s mouth. “We can’t involve anyone else.”
“Ivy sews,” Charlie said. “I trust her. But Fern might see.”
“No.” Gerrit mashed his lips together. He refused to involve Ivy.
“Aunt Opal.” Charlie sprang to his feet. “I’ll ask her.”
“No!” Gerrit said.
Bernardus grabbed for the boy’s arm. “Absolutely not.”
“She can be trusted.” Charlie glared at the men. “Uncle Arthur has a wireless, and the Germans have never found it, never even searched their property.”
Gerrit laid the jacket and silk diagram in his lap. “This would put them in danger, and adding someone new would endanger everyone in the network.”
“No one else.” Bernardus’s voice grated like gravel. “We’ll learn how to sew.”
“Oh?” Charlie set his hands on his hips. “Who’ll teach you? What will you tell them?”
What indeed would they tell them? Gerrit fingered the rough wool and smooth silk. “Oh well. It was a good idea.”
“It’s an excellent idea.” Charlie crossed his arms. “In fact, I refuse to serve as your courier unless you enact it. Carrying the maps in my bag is too dangerous. If you want me to be your courier, you’ll march over to the farmhouse and ask my aunt.”
Gerrit met Bernardus’s skeptical gaze. The plan to sew the maps inside the jackets was good. Sending the maps to the Allies was good. And if it was good, he had to act. “You’re always telling me to trust the Lord, Bernardus.”
“I trust the Lord. I don’t trust the Nazis.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said. “This would protect me from the Nazis.”
“It violates every rule.” Bernardus groaned and pushed himself to standing. “But what choice do we have? Show us the way, Charlie.”
Charlie led them across a field with grasses bright in the chilly sunshine, past Jersey cows, small and russet, and to the granite farmhouse.
After Charlie knocked, he opened the door. “Uncle Arthur? Aunt Opal?”
In a cozy drawing room, a middle-aged couple rose from their armchairs. Stared at their uninvited guests. Turned ashen.
“These are my friends,” Charlie said, “Bernardus Kroon and Gerrit van der Zee. Bernardus and Gerrit, may I introduce Arthur and Opal Jouny?”
“Friends.” Mr. Jouny’s voice rasped, and his cheeks worked. Poor man, trying to conceal his hatred and fear of his enemy.
“Friends indeed. Wait until you hear.” Charlie waved Gerrit and Bernardus to the sofa.
Gerrit clenched wool and silk in his hands. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Jouny.”
His host and hostess stood stiffly. Mrs. Jouny and Ivy bore a strong family resemblance—Ivy would be an attractive woman in middle age.
Mrs. Jouny shook herself. “Please do have a seat. Would you like some parsnip coffee? It’s all I have, I’m afraid.”
“No, thank you.” Gerrit and Bernardus sat on the sofa with Charlie at one end.
Charlie rested his elbows on his knees. “Gerrit and Bernardus are Dutch, and they’re in the resistance.”
“Charlie!” Bernardus whacked him in the arm.
“They joined Organisation Todt so they could spy on German fortifications.”
“Oh no,” Gerrit muttered. What was Charlie doing?
“They can’t send their maps and diagrams off the island,” Charlie said, “so I’ve been acting as their courier.”
“Charlie Picot!” Mr. Jouny’s face turned stonier than the walls of his home. “What on earth are you thinking? It could be a trap.”
One shake of Charlie’s head. “I’ve been their courier for several months. If it were a trap, I’d already be in a concentration camp.”
“Or dead.” His uncle ground out the words, and his aunt slapped her hands over her mouth.
“May I?” Charlie reached across Bernardus and took the silk from Gerrit’s lap. “Gerrit draws in secret ink. You can’t see, but this is a diagram of a German command bunker about to be built at Noirmont Point—with all the specifications. Think how this will help the Allies.”
“What do you two have to say for yourselves?” Mr. Jouny shifted that rock-hard gaze to Gerrit and Bernardus. “How dare you use a fifteen-year-old boy?”
“I volunteered, Uncle Arthur.”
Bernardus raised one hand in a calming gesture. “We don’t take it lightly, Mr. Jouny. We didn’t want to involve Charlie at first.”
“You shouldn’t have done at all.” Mr. Jouny shook his hand toward the silk. “If he’s caught with that—”
“I’ll be shot,” Charlie said. “Which is why I need your help. I’ve been carrying the maps in my duffel, and I have a cover story about buying silk on the black market for my girlfriend in Saint-Malo or—”
“Oh no.” Mrs. Jouny’s voice trembled through her fingers. “That won’t do.”
“No, it won’t.” Charlie waved to Gerrit. “Tell them your idea.”
Gerrit felt as if he were the one facing the firing squad. And for good reason. He cleared his throat and lifted Charlie’s jacket. “Charlie’s work jacket is lined. If we could open the lining and insert the map, hang it from the shoulders perhaps, and sew it back up.”
“None of us knows how to sew.” Charlie turned a pleading look to his aunt. “But you do, Aunt Opal. This could save my life.”
Mrs. Jouny’s hands drifted down to her lap. “You want me—”
“Absolutely not.” Mr. Jouny slashed his arm through the idea.
“The maps would be out of sight.” Bernardus clasped his hands together. “Even if the silk were detected, Charlie could claim he’d added another layer of fabric for warmth. And remember, the maps are invisible.”
Mrs. Jouny stretched one hand to Gerrit. “May I see?”
“Opal!” her husband said.
Charlie shrugged. “If Aunt Opal can’t help, I’ll keep carrying the maps in my bag, using my flimsy cover story.”
Gerrit clamped off a laugh. Charlie had told Gerrit and Bernardus he refused to carry them in his bag anymore—and told his aunt the opposite. Perhaps the boy had a future in politics.
He handed the jacket to Mrs. Jouny.
“Opal . . .” Mr. Jouny said, but with a note of resignation.
“Hush, Arthur. I’m only having a look.” She opened a hinged wooden box beside her chair and pulled out a tiny metal hook. Two little pokes. “Oh yes. That would be simple.”
“Opal . . .” And now full resignation.
“This could save Charlie’s life.” She picked at stitches. “You know what we Picots are like. He’ll keep carrying those maps and putting himself in danger.”
Mr. Jouny’s head lolled back. “I had to marry a Picot.”
A smile tugged at Gerrit’s lips. Other than Fern, he liked every Picot he’d met.
Mrs. Jouny kept jabbing with her little hook. “You always say you wish we could do something for the Allies. Well, Charlie is doing just that. Now I can do my bit.”
Mr. Jouny huffed out a breath, now with mock aggravation. “Where does that leave me? I’m still not doing my bit.”
“Ah, but you could,” Charlie said. “I have another idea.”
Gerrit snapped his gaze to the youth. What idea?
“Gerrit lives in a hotel with the Todt men. Most are rabid Nazis. One of them almost caught him drawing. He needs a place to work.”
“No, no.” Gerrit waved one hand. “I’m fine. I’m locking my door now.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Jouny frowned at her work. “Our boys are away fighting for Britain. They have a nice big desk in their room upstairs.”
“Yes.” Mr. Jouny’s eyebrows gathered over his dark eyes. “And a large wardrobe. If an agricultural inspector comes, you’d have a place to hide.”
“But why would I be here?” Gerrit motioned around him. “I’d be seen coming and going. What excuse could we give?”
Mrs. Jouny lifted the jacket and a smile. “Many of the soldiers hire local women for laundry and mending.”
Gerrit closed his eyes, and the ideas tumbled in his mind, tumbled into place.
Tumbled into trust.
Beside him, Bernardus groaned. “This is most unwise.”
“It is.” Gerrit opened his eyes. “Let’s do it.”