Chapter 29
chapter
Organisation Todt Recreation Center
Beaufort Hotel, St. Helier
Candles bedecked a small evergreen tree in the OT recreation center in the Beaufort Hotel, and half a dozen drunken noncommissioned officers sang “O Tannenbaum.”
Gerrit sat at a long table eating sausage and potato salad with a vinegary sauce, all well seasoned, although the locals hadn’t had a salt ration all month.
Siegfried Meyer brandished a whole sausage on his fork. “We shouldn’t celebrate Christmas Eve—only the winter solstice. It’s what the Führer wants, purifying us of Jewish influence, returning to our Teutonic roots.”
Rolf Hoffman lifted his beer stein. “If it means free beer, I’ll celebrate anything.”
Raucous laughter circled the table, and Gerrit managed a smile.
He’d rather be alone on the holiday than with OT, but he needed to prove his loyalty.
His Dutch nationality and his best friend’s treachery against the Germans made Gerrit suspect in many eyes.
The fact that he’d raised the alarm about Bernardus’s sabotage, even if imperfectly, helped in other eyes.
Ernst Schmeling kept a close watch on him and checked his work thoroughly.
Gerrit chewed a bite of sausage. Bernardus would spend Christmas Day alone. Arthur and Opal couldn’t host Christmas, not with a collaborator for a niece and with Opal’s sister, Ruby, unenlightened about their fugitive guest. Instead, Ruby and her husband Leo were hosting the celebration.
Gerrit filled his mouth with potato salad and his mind with thoughts of Ivy. The Picot family would have simple and bland fare, unsalted, but Ivy would be there. The woman he loved.
He hadn’t yet told her he loved her. Only four months had passed since she learned he was in the resistance, and only a month since their first kiss.
Gerrit grinned and sliced his sausage. Not their last kiss, not by any means.
“You look happy, van der Zee.” Across from Gerrit, Bruno Bauer sopped up sauce with a piece of bread. Bauer, a man nearing sixty who worked in OT Headquarters in St. Helier, lived in the room across from Gerrit.
“The food is good, ja?” Gerrit grinned again, as if delighted with potatoes rather than Ivy.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go home for Christmas.”
Gerrit shrugged and busied himself with potatoes.
Letters from home announced that the Kroon family had been notified of Bernardus’s presumed death in the service of Organisation Todt.
Now the van der Zee family knew of Gerrit’s service as well.
Even though Vader and Moeder worded their correspondence with Gestapo censors in mind, their shock and scorn came through.
How could Gerrit go home? How could he watch Mr. and Mrs. Kroon grieve when he could relieve their twofold mourning with the news that their son not only lived but was a hero of the resistance?
How could he bear his family’s uncensored derision?
And how could he conceal what would exonerate himself—but would endanger them and others?
He could barely lie well enough to fool strangers when lives were at stake, but fooling his parents and sisters would be impossible. And wrong.
Gerrit scraped the last of the sauce from his plate. “How about you, Bauer? Are you sorry not to go home?”
“Ja.” His fleshy mouth bent down. “The enemy makes travel so dangerous now, my wife begged me not to take the risk.”
Gerrit gave a sympathetic murmur. British and American aircraft ranged deep into German territory, shooting up railways and locomotives.
The more the Allies disrupted transportation on the continent, the harder it would be for the Nazis to send reinforcements when the invasion came.
And preventing soldiers from taking leave decreased morale.
Yet Gerrit couldn’t rejoice at the melancholy on Bauer’s jowly face. Although loyal to Germany, Bauer—like Willy Riedel—showed some basic decency. Gerrit didn’t trust Bauer or Riedel, but he liked them.
“Did you hear the good news?” Meyer laughed, and bits of food flew from his mouth. “That Jersey cow was sentenced to six months.”
Gerrit frowned. “A cow?” Now the Germans were sending cattle to prison?
“A woman,” Bauer said. “A Jerseywoman was convicted of throwing manure on German soldiers.”
A boisterous laugh from Meyer. “At least it was on soldiers, not OT men.”
Laughter flowed around the table. The German soldiers, who had a general reputation in Jersey for “correct” behavior, despised the men from OT, who were known for brutality and drunken brawling.
Gerrit lowered his face so no one could see he hadn’t joined the laughter. Six months in prison for throwing manure? A typical sentence for infractions such as owning a wireless set, insulting a German soldier, or spreading news from the BBC.
If the Germans learned what Gerrit was doing, his sentence would be far worse. But with winter weather impeding both shipping to Saint-Malo and construction in Jersey, the delivery of Gerrit’s maps and diagrams had slowed.
The British agent had sent Charlie back with another parachute, certainly from the agent’s return to France, but no crystals for making ink.
When he ran out of ink, his work would end.
“Lebkuchen?” Hoffman passed Gerrit a tray of little brown biscuits which smelled of ginger and other spices.
“Thank you.” Gerrit took one and passed the tray.
Hoffman’s close-set blue eyes narrowed as he studied the biscuit in his hand. “My Greta makes the best Lebkuchen.”
Meyer hoisted his stein. “Next year you shall eat your Greta’s Lebkuchen at home—after German victory!”
Lackluster cheers erupted. Although the Allied offensive in Italy had slowed, the Soviets ground closer to the German border each day. German defeat—not victory—seemed inevitable.
Meyer thumped down his stein, and beer sloshed out. “Let the English come. We’re ready.”
Indeed, thirty-eight major strongpoints ringed the Channel Islands, and over four hundred thousand cubic meters of reinforced concrete had been poured. If the French coast bore similar fortifications, the Allied invasion would be bloody.
“I wonder how long we’ll stay here.” Bauer rolled his Lebkuchen in his wide hand. “Most of our workers have been sent to France, but I’d rather stay.”
“It’s safe, ja?” Hoffman chewed his biscuit. “In France, the terrorists are barbaric. They assassinate our men.”
Bauer nodded. “And the English bombers rarely come here.”
“Don’t be cowards.” Meyer’s nose shriveled. “I will go where the Führer sends me, die for the Führer if necessary.”
To disagree could be fatal, so Gerrit added his half-hearted, muttered agreement.
But he met Bauer’s concerned gaze across the table. Gerrit would rather stay in Jersey too.
He’d promised to return to Ivy if he were transferred to France, and she’d promised to wait for him. But leaving her would shred him up inside.
If he left Jersey, he’d have no way to pass diagrams to the Allies. Charlie was his only link to the British agent, and unless Gerrit was sent to the Saint-Malo area, Charlie wouldn’t be able to connect Gerrit directly with the agent to continue his work on the continent.
Bernardus knew other contacts in France, but he was confined to the Jouny farm. And how many of his original contacts had been arrested?
If Gerrit were sent to France, he would no longer be able to aid the resistance.
The ginger in the biscuit failed to subdue the nausea filling his stomach. How could he bear to leave?