Chapter 34
chapter
St. Helier
A loud yawn defied Gerrit’s will and stretched his face as he and Ernst Schmeling marched across the parade grounds of the lower ward of Elizabeth Castle.
Schmeling shot him a derisive look. Despite the early hour, the man’s discipline prevailed. “Coming early is the best way to conduct a surprise inspection. Our flak guns aren’t doing enough, and I want to know why.”
“Not nearly enough.” Gerrit feigned a concerned expression. All day, all night, Allied aircraft passed over Jersey, often strafing and bombing German positions on the island, and German antiaircraft guns had yet to bring down prey.
Inspecting gun crews fell far outside Organisation Todt’s jurisdiction, although inspecting the structures themselves might be justified. Of course, guard duty also fell out of OT’s jurisdiction, but on D-day, Gerrit and all other uniformed OT staff had manned gun positions.
Along the walls of the parade grounds, men piled sandbags. Elizabeth Castle served as a penal colony for OT workers who had escaped the labor camps or stolen food or committed other infractions. Did they know their liberation was near?
Gerrit and Schmeling stepped through a gate out of the lower ward. To the left, a staircase led down to a breakwater capped by a medieval hermitage high on a rock and by a modern cubical gun position. Under a blue sky, a handful of patrol vessels and cargo ships plied the aquamarine waters.
The men passed the staircase and continued down a walkway alongside the castle wall.
The Allies had a strong foothold in Normandy on the far side of the Cotentin Peninsula, close enough that the rumble of bombing reached Jersey, even cracking windows on the east coast.
Although some of the Germans in Jersey believed the Allies would strike next in the Pas de Calais region of France, the rest believed they would come to the Channel Islands.
Then Gerrit’s work, the danger he’d risked, the scorn he’d endured—all would be vindicated.
Gerrit and Schmeling mounted a stone staircase back through the castle wall.
Schmeling’s arms swung hard as he climbed. “We need to make sure our defenses are strong before we leave for France.”
Gerrit’s chest clenched. Only a few hundred of the forced and volunteer workers remained, but the evacuation of staff had been delayed. “Do you think we’ll leave?”
“I’d rather stay—this is my responsibility. But we have a greater responsibility to the Reich, and there is much work in France.”
Gerrit fought to control his face. No matter what, he couldn’t leave Jersey.
Not only would retreating with the Germans through France be deadly, but he’d be required to work for the enemy without the satisfaction of also aiding the Allies.
He’d be cut off from the people and from the secret ink maps that could prove his loyalty.
He’d be cut off from Ivy. If he left, he couldn’t protect her and her family. He wanted to stay with her, see Jersey’s liberation with her, celebrate with her.
And propose to her. He would be in custody for a while, but before that, he’d ask her to be his wife.
Gerrit’s breath came harder as he climbed. He kept his duffel packed so he could flee to the Jouny farm at short notice.
At the top of the stairs, the rising sun illuminated the open space of the upper ward, crowned by a cylindrical gun tower and a flak gun.
Shouting rose from the tower. Metal gears cranked.
A whine built to the west, a roar.
An air raid!
“Take cover, Herr Oberbauführer!” Gerrit dashed back into the stairway and lay flat on the stone steps under the rocky arch. “Take cover!”
A whistle, and something silver plummeted through the air. The flak guns thumped as they thrust steel skyward.
Gerrit pressed his hands over his ears. Lord, let the flak gunners miss.
The steps bucked beneath Gerrit. The stone wall across from him quaked. A plume of earth arched high on the far side. But the walls remained intact. As did Gerrit.
More whistles. Splashes far below.
The RAF would aim for ships. For ships like Charlie’s, and Gerrit grimaced. Lately, the Ormer had made only a handful of trips and had turned back several times under fire.
Even though Gerrit’s pulse thudded in his ears, even though his breath skittered in his lungs, a strange grin rose.
The Allies were prevailing. They would come soon.
Gerrit just had to survive until victory.
St. Helier
Friday, June 30, 1944
After dinner, Gerrit relaxed on his bed with a library book. Since the sun wouldn’t set until after nine o’clock, he didn’t need to use electricity.
“Van der Zee!” A man knocked on his hotel room door. “Van der Zee!”
Book in hand, Gerrit ran to the door.
Ernst Schmeling stood in the hallway. “We have orders to sail to Saint-Malo. Meet in the lobby with your luggage in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” Panic and exhilaration wrestled inside him. “The Allies have landed in Jersey?”
“Nein. We have more important work on the continent.”
Panic won. How could he escape to the farm? “Why now? Why so soon?”
“We have a break in the weather. Hurry.” Schmeling knocked on the next door.
“No, no, no,” Gerrit muttered, and he threw on his uniform jacket. He’d expected a day’s notice. At least an hour’s notice. But fifteen minutes?
“Lord, help me escape.” Leaving his library book behind and unfinished, he tossed his shaving kit into his packed duffel and raced downstairs. If he beat the other OT men to the lobby, he could slip away.
Gerrit threw open the stairway door on the ground floor.
Half a dozen officers stood in the lobby, including Willy Riedel, who waved Gerrit over.
A gaping pit formed in Gerrit’s belly, but he worked up a pleasant expression and joined the men. Schmeling must have summoned the officers before the noncommissioned men like Gerrit.
As the officers talked in low tones about the dangers the Allies posed to ships and the necessity of continuing their work in France, Gerrit’s gaze drifted to the front door. A lorry parked outside with an armed guard.
How could Gerrit sneak past so many eyes, so many pistols? All the men were armed.
“Come along.” An officer ushered the group—now a dozen men—outside.
Trapped in the group, Gerrit had no choice but to climb into the back of the lorry, to sit there, paralyzed, as the lorry drove through St. Helier.
Two years earlier, he hadn’t wanted to come to Jersey. Now he didn’t want to leave.
How could he leave? He couldn’t. He couldn’t keep up the charade of being loyal to the German cause. He couldn’t build and fight for everything he hated while his true comrades fought for everything he loved.
That pit in his belly seethed. He couldn’t leave Ivy. He hadn’t said goodbye, couldn’t send her a message to tell her he was departing.
Pressure built around his throat. Did she know how much he loved her? Did she know he’d do everything in his power to return to her? If he survived.
The lorry halted at the harbor entrance to let another lorry pass, and Gerrit gripped the metal edge of the bed. He could jump out. Run.
If he did so, he’d be shot.
The lorry rumbled into the dock area and stopped at the foot of Albert Pier, where half a dozen ships docked.
Gerrit climbed out. He had one last chance, not to escape, but to let Ivy know he was leaving.
If he could find Charlie, even catch his eye, Charlie would understand. Charlie would tell her.
A guard motioned for the OT men to wait, and more guards led two dozen civilians onto the pier.
Gerrit’s chest caved in—ordinary men and women of all ages. Prisoners convicted of crimes such as spreading English news or harboring escaped workers or stealing food from the Germans, off to serve sentences in horrific prisons or concentration camps.
Ice tingled in the cavern in Gerrit’s chest. Rumors of atrocities in those concentration camps had spread around the island, more so in the last two days.
The source of those rumors now trudged down the pier, dozens of wraiths in rags, with sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones, herded by black-clad guards.
Two days earlier, these slave workers had arrived on their way to France from Alderney, one of the Channel Islands.
From all accounts, conditions for the forced laborers in Alderney made conditions in Jersey seem mild.
And this group of Jews and political prisoners had been supervised by the notorious German SS.
An officer to Gerrit’s right grunted. “I’m glad we’re sending these workers to the continent. We need as many as we can get.”
Gerrit clamped his tongue between his molars so he wouldn’t speak. They’d have far more workers if they didn’t work the ones they had to death.
The swastika armband burned on Gerrit’s arm. If only he could rip it off, shred it. By wearing it, wasn’t he defending the very nation that perpetrated such crimes, that murdered good men like Demyan Marchenko and countless others? Wouldn’t it be better to take a bullet?
Gerrit squeezed his eyes shut and breathed hard, prayed hard. What would that accomplish? Would it stop the atrocities? Would it bring an Allied victory? Would it help the people he loved?
In a way, it would be a purely selfish—if principled—act.
“Come along, van der Zee.” Riedel nudged him.
Gerrit pried his eyes open, shoved his feet down the pier.
Charlie—he had to find Charlie. But he didn’t see the Ormer, didn’t see his friend.
The OT men filed on board a cargo ship and crammed onto the deck. Gerrit and Riedel found a spot at the rails.
“I don’t want to leave.” Riedel cast a rueful gaze over the town. “But we’re in danger of getting trapped here.”
“True.” The other day, the Americans had taken the port of Cherbourg at the northern tip of the Cotentin Peninsula. Would they now drive south toward Saint-Malo?
Still no sign that the Allies were coming to the Channel Islands. Surely they wouldn’t bypass the islands—their own soil, their own people.
Yet that soil was covered by the heaviest defenses on the Atlantic Wall, and those people would be endangered in battle.
The British had abandoned the islands in 1940 due to the lack of strategic value.
Would the Germans come to the same conclusion and evacuate their troops?
Or follow the dictates of the military commander of the Channel Islands and fight to the last man?
If the Allies even came.
A frown tugged at Gerrit’s lips. If they never came, his work was for nothing. All those maps, all those diagrams—a waste of silk and secret ink and lives risked.
Loaded with OT men, the cargo ship rumbled away from the pier and into the gray bay in the gray evening.
A cool breeze buffeted his face, and Gerrit closed his eyes and prayed. He had no control over any aspect of his life right now—probably never did. He had to trust God with the results, trust God to protect Ivy and Charlie and Bernardus and the Jounys, because he couldn’t—probably never could.
His breath stilled, and a strange sense of peace filled him.
On Sunday, the rector had preached from Habakkuk: “Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.”
Gerrit prayed out his own version. Even if he were marched all the way to Berlin. Even if he were never exonerated. Even if he never saw Ivy again. Even if he died—even if executed as a traitor—yet he would rejoice in the Lord.
“Oh, Lord,” he whispered into the wind. “Show me how.”
A murmur swept the deck, built to cries.
Gerrit’s eyes flew open. Low over the water, a large aircraft approached the far side of the ship, propellers spinning in four shiny discs. Twin projectiles plummeted from the plane’s wings and slapped the water, and the bomber roared past over the ship.
“Torpedoes!”
With wild faces, men surged to Gerrit’s side of the ship. Some scrambled over the rails and into the water.
Gerrit stared down into the gray waves. Stay on a ship about to be torpedoed? Or swim to safety? To an escape even?
His left hand stretched and coiled once. He had no time to deliberate, and he looped the strap of his duffel over his head and vaulted over the rail.
Cool water slapped the breath out of him, rushed over his head. He paddled to the surface, gulped in air, and swam hard for shore. His duffel served as a brake, but he’d ditch it only if necessary.
More splashes in the water, and a dozen men swam alongside him.
A shuddering crash.
Gerrit glanced over his shoulder.
The cargo ship lurched to one side but didn’t explode.
Riedel leaned over the rail, his broad face frantic. “I can’t swim, van der Zee! I can’t swim.”
Gerrit paused and treaded water. He was a strong swimmer, but could he save another man? How could he not try?
“Stay there, Riedel,” he yelled. “You’re safer on board. If the boat sinks, I’ll help you.”
“Yes, stay there.” Ernst Schmeling treaded water not far from Gerrit, his wet hair glistening silver. “Patrol boats are coming.”
Two small vessels zipped through the bay toward the cargo ship.
“Swim to shore, van der Zee.” Schmeling paddled toward land. “The patrol boats will rescue our men.”
Gerrit raised one hand to Riedel in farewell, then swam toward the beach, his breath coming hard, shuddering in the cold.
He couldn’t escape from OT, even now, not with Schmeling and a dozen others in sight.
But he’d have another day in Jersey.
A chance to say goodbye.