Chapter 18
chapter
Gorey
Ivy knocked on the door of a house in Gorey. Joan had sent her with potassium bromide for Mrs. Renouard, who was “rather in a hurry,” which meant an urgent case with a sick escapee.
Mrs. Renouard, a woman in her thirties with curly brown hair, greeted Ivy and led her through the house and into the kitchen.
Dr. Harold Tipton sat at the table, and he rose. “Good afternoon.”
Ivy held her breath. Why was Dr. Tipton there? “Good afternoon.”
Mrs. Renouard left and shut the kitchen door.
“Please have a seat.” Dr. Tipton gestured to a kitchen chair. “Mrs. Renouard prepared blackberry leaf tea for us. And no, a patient is not awaiting your care.”
He was indeed involved, and Ivy sank into the chair before her legs gave out.
Dr. Tipton sat and raised his teacup. “You’ve been working with our ring for six months, and we’ve decided to bring you in fully.”
Air hopped from Ivy’s mouth. It was indeed a ring.
“Also . . .” He took a sip, and his lip curled. “Abominable stuff.”
Ivy let herself smile. “You brought me here to complain about ersatz tea?”
He laughed, and light from the window glinted off his red hair. Then he sobered. “Given the recent developments in St. Saviour’s Parish, we wanted to give you the chance to bow out.”
Ivy wrapped her hands around the teacup, and her chest ached.
On Friday, eighteen men had been sentenced in the wireless case, including the hospital steward, the hospital secretary—and Canon Clifford Cohu.
A devastating blow to the island, with so many beloved and esteemed men given harsh sentences, ranging from two weeks to three years in prison.
Dr. Tipton arched an eyebrow. “If we are caught, the repercussions would be just as severe.”
What else could Ivy do? “My father taught me to never turn away someone who is suffering.”
“Excellent.” Warmth livened his gaze. “Several of us are involved in treating and transporting the escaped workers. We also provide clothing, ration books, and identity papers so they can pass as local farmworkers.”
“I see.” Ivy sipped the tea, not abominable to her taste. “It’s better for the men to perform meaningful work than to stay inside all day.”
“Indeed. Boredom drives the men to reckless behavior and must be avoided.” Dr. Tipton adjusted his suit jacket, too large on his frame. He’d been rather portly before the occupation. “You and Miss de Ferrers have a clever method of communicating. We need to add a code.”
“All right.” She primed her memory, since she could write nothing down.
“If an escapee must be moved urgently—for any reason at all—you must ring Miss de Ferrers straightaway with a prescription for the helper. Prescribe a dosage ten times higher than normal. When she corrects you, insist upon it.”
“I see. Then she’ll know it’s a code.”
“Yes.” Dr. Tipton stood and offered his hand. “We will not speak of this again.”
She stood and shook his hand. “Thank you for trusting me to help.”
“You’ve proven discreet and capable. And as unfortunate as your sister’s and your brother’s associations must be for you, the situation is quite fortunate for us.”
A darkness flooded Ivy’s heart again. “A decoy.”
Dr. Tipton inclined his head in affirmation. “You may leave first, and I’ll depart later.”
“Thank you.” Outside, Ivy rode her bicycle through Gorey under a soft gray sky. For almost three years of the German occupation, the physicians had overlooked and ignored her—although with great politeness. Now she’d earned the respect of Dr. Tipton and others in the ring.
When she reached the Gorey Coast Road, the scenic medieval castle of Mont Orgueil rose to her left on the headlands, keeping watch over a colorful row of shops and a collection of fishing boats.
Ivy headed south, breathing in the scent of spring, of wildflowers and fresh young leaves.
But as she approached Grouville, she smelled dust and oil and filthy men. Here the new Todt railway slashed through greenery and flowers, trampled them, tossed them aside, the bare brown earth scratched with dull steel tracks.
Why did the Germans destroy everything good and beautiful?
“Ivy!” About fifty feet ahead, Charlie flagged her down. “Ivy! I thought it was you.”
Ivy coasted up to her brother and hopped from her bicycle. “Hallo, there. What brings you up this way?”
“Gerrit is showing me the new sixty-centimeter gauge railway line. It’ll soon connect Gorey to St. Helier. Isn’t it fantastic?”
Twenty feet off the road, Gerrit van der Zee stood in his Todt uniform, his face pinched, and he edged away. “Good afternoon, Dr. Picot.”
At least he had the grace to know his company wasn’t wanted, so she washed some of the starch from her tone. “Good afternoon, Mr. van der Zee.”
“Don’t leave, Gerrit.” Charlie shielded his eyes from the sun. “We can ask Ivy.”
“Ask me what?”
Gerrit’s face turned pink. “Let’s not.”
“No, no.” Charlie waved him closer. “You see, Ivy, Gerrit’s going home on leave next week, and he offered to bring us items.”
Ivy’s hands tightened around the handlebars. How often had she told Fern she didn’t want the food and soap and silk stockings sent home by her German employer? How then could Ivy accept a gift from someone in German uniform?
Gerrit’s lips pressed together, and he stepped closer. “I understand your reluctance. But each occupied nation faces different conditions. In Jersey, you have fruit and vegetables and potatoes.”
“Potatoes are rationed.” Her words came out clipped.
“You receive five pounds weekly, more than my family receives. But in Amsterdam, I may find items that are scarce here.”
“A kind offer.” Charlie’s words carried a challenge.
Kind indeed, but the shortages and rationing existed only because Germany, which Gerrit supported through his labor, occupied most of Europe. So much suffering, so much illness, so much death.
She took Charlie’s challenge and directed it at Gerrit. “Insulin.”
Two blond eyebrows lifted toward the brown forage cap. “Insulin?”
“To treat diabetes. We have none on the island, and our patients are dying. We’ve placed them in hospital to control their diet and activity, but it isn’t enough. Another died yesterday.”
Those golden eyebrows bunched together over sea-blue eyes, and compassion rolled like surf through that sea.
Ivy climbed back onto her bicycle. “The only item I would accept from you would be insulin. Good day, Mr. van der Zee. Goodbye, Charlie.”
“Ivy . . .” Charlie’s voice followed as she coasted downhill.
Dr. Tipton had referred to Fern’s and Charlie’s unfortunate associations. Of all the men in Jersey, why did Charlie choose to befriend two collaborators?
Saint-Malo, France
Tuesday, April 27, 1943
Gerrit climbed the gangway onto the SS Ormer, his uniform harsh and unwelcome on his limbs. Although required to wear his uniform on leave, Gerrit had changed into a civilian suit upon arrival at the Amsterdam train station and hadn’t changed back until the return trip.
His family knew he was working for an engineering firm in Jersey, but not that the firm was contracted to Organisation Todt. How could he explain?
On deck, Charlie Picot coiled a line around his arm.
Gerrit raised a hand and a smile in greeting. “Good afternoon, Charlie.”
“Good afternoon.” Charlie’s smile seemed flat. “Back from leave?”
“I am. I was pleased to see the Ormer listed in the convoy.”
Charlie set aside the coiled line. “May I put your bags in the cabin?”
“Yes, thank you.” Gerrit handed him his duffel bag but patted the satchel over his shoulder. “I’ll keep this one. It contains three bottles of insulin.”
Charlie’s jaw sprang open. “Insulin? How?”
“I explained the situation in Jersey to our family apothecary. He offered to sell me some but said I needed to keep it cold.”
Charlie stared at the leather satchel. “How . . .”
“I visited my favorite antique shop.” Sadly, the owner’s stock of the mechanical metal toys Gerrit collected had been confiscated, to be scrapped for the German war machine.
“I bought an apothecary jar, filled it with ice, and packed the insulin inside. Your sister may keep the jar or dash it to pieces.”
“This won’t be like the reams of paper. She’ll know where the insulin came from.”
“I think her concern for her patients will overcome her pride.” Gerrit held no delusions that this would make Ivy think better of him, nor was that his aim. He only shared her righteous anger at people dying for want of what should be a common medication.
Charlie kept gaping. In his shirtsleeves.
He was never supposed to remove his jacket except when making the exchange.
Gerrit’s stomach tensed. “Aren’t you . . . chilly?”
“Ripped my jacket, left it in Saint-Malo for mending.” Charlie’s voice and his gaze dipped low.
Ice crackled in Gerrit’s veins. Something must have gone wrong in the exchange. “I have a suit jacket you can wear if you’re cold.”
“I’m fine. If I’m not busy . . .” He lifted his face, and hesitation cramped his gaze.
“I’ll be on the deck.” They might be able to speak in private.
He left Charlie to his work and headed to the stern of the cargo boat, where he chose a spot in the corner, out of the way. Dozens of passengers boarded, mostly German soldiers, and Gerrit grumbled. He might have to wait days to find out what had gone wrong.
If only Gerrit or Bernardus could have made the exchange while on the continent on leave. But they couldn’t. Only one courier, and only Charlie knew the exchange procedures.
Had Gerrit missed a crucial detail? But how could he control what happened in France? He couldn’t. Nor was he meant to, and his groan disappeared in the rumble of engines.
The boat pulled away from the dock and into the harbor, leaving the ancient walled city. Leaving the continent.
Tensions had been high in Amsterdam, but Easter with his family had been pleasant.
Moeder had filled him with his favorite foods—as much as she could with rationing.
Vader never once mentioned his disappointment with Gerrit leaving the family firm.
And his sisters, Anke and Myrthe, had been in excellent spirits.
Six cargo boats traveled in a close pack, ringed by three German torpedo boats to protect against Allied attack by air or sea.
France shrank to a dark band, and blue seas reflected blue skies, a perfect day for sailing. Despite the fine weather, over time the other passengers abandoned the deck for the cabin.
Two hours out to sea, Charlie joined him at the rail.
Gerrit glanced around in an innocent manner, using his old resistance skills. No one stood in earshot, especially with the racket of the engines.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Gerrit asked in his lowest voice.
“A bit.” Charlie clasped his hands on top of the railing. “I went to my usual place, but the jacket wasn’t where it should have been. And there was a man—it didn’t feel right. After all, what man wears a hat in church?” He winced. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’ll forget it.” Surely Saint-Malo had dozens of churches.
Charlie twisted to face Gerrit. “Since I’ve already said it, a priest is always there lighting candles.
He never speaks to anyone. But today, he spoke to the man in the hat, rather louder than necessary, asked if he could light a candle for him.
The man looked annoyed, pulled his hat down lower.
I think the priest is in the network. I think he was calling my attention to the man, warning me. ”
Gestapo. Gerrit’s fingers dug at the railing. This was why he or Bernardus should have been the ones taking the chances, not a youth. “What happened?”
Charlie hunched his shoulders. “I wanted to run, but that’s the worst thing to do. I stayed another fifteen minutes, praying harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life, and then left. The man in the hat followed me.”
“Oh no. Charlie.”
The boy’s cheeks worked, no longer spotted by blemishes, but still smooth with youth. “I know what to do. I walked at my usual speed, ate lunch at my usual café, strolled back to the docks, never looked back at him. He left me alone halfway through lunch.”
“The jacket? Where is it?” The diagram they’d scheduled to send this week was for a giant observation tower under construction at Batterie Lothringen. Since the tower was the first of its kind and the design was unique to the Channel Islands, delivering the diagram to the Allies was essential.
“Marie works in the harbormaster’s office. I gave the jacket to her, said I’d ripped it, asked her to mend it. They know what that means.”
Now a young girl had the diagram, and Gerrit huffed out a breath. “What next?”
“When I return, I pick up my mending. They’ll inform me of my new procedures.” His cheeks kept working, paler than usual.
“It isn’t too late,” Gerrit said. “You can stop at any time. We’ll understand.”
Charlie gripped his elbows, not quite hugging himself. “Soldiers on the front can’t quit when they have a close call. Why should I?”
Because he was too young to be a soldier, too special to die young, too beloved by his family.
And not one of those arguments would hold sway.
“I must do this.” Charlie’s voice strengthened. “I’ve been praying all day. I know I must.”
Noise built around Gerrit and inside him, engines throbbing, objections shouting, and conviction sizzling like molten steel hitting air. “I know. We all must do this.”
Charlie wrenched his gaze to the sky.
The throbbing engines, the shouts. Crewmen scrambled around the deck, up to the antiaircraft gun mounted on top of the cabin. High above, engines whined.
“Oh no,” Charlie said. “Another air raid.”
“Another?”
“Don’t tell my sisters.” Charlie grabbed Gerrit’s arm and dashed to the cabin. “Take cover. Get low.”
Inside the cabin, dozens of men crouched on the deck, and Gerrit and Charlie joined them.
Through a porthole, Gerrit saw three fighter planes diving, each with two propellers spinning. The British Royal Air Force.
Part of him wanted to cheer for the RAF. And part of him wanted to scream at the pilots to spare this boat, these men.
Gunfire crackled from on top of the cabin roof.
“Gerrit! Get down.” Charlie tugged at his sleeve.
He obeyed, bowing his body around his satchel, around what might be the only insulin bound for Jersey.
“Not this boat, Lord,” he muttered. “Not today.”
The plane engines and gunfire built to a fever pitch, then faded.
No screams. No shouts. The boat and the men aboard had survived. As had the insulin.
At least this prayer, on behalf of Ivy’s patients, the Lord had answered.