On either side of the fireplace in the bedroom, Arthur Jouny had constructed a false wall. To one side, a wardrobe with a sliding back panel concealed a doorway through the false wall.
Several times, Gerrit and Bernardus had rehearsed hiding, and twice Gerrit had joined his friend in the compartment—once when Fern visited, and once during a German agricultural inspection, even though the inspectors hadn’t entered the house.
Gerrit loosened his tie in the heat of the day, and he dipped his pen in the secret ink. Perhaps he should stop this work. Invasion was imminent, and the island was on edge. The islanders elated, the Germans skittish.
OT had recently converted the tunnel complex of Hohlgangsanlage 8 from an ammunition depot to a giant hospital, ready to receive hundreds of casualties. This time, Gerrit had enjoyed using his engineering skills. Not only was the project humanitarian in nature, but it diverted OT from building yet more fortifications.
Gerrit penned the specifications for the searchlight bunker, even though his diagram might not reach England before the invasion, especially with Charlie making fewer trips to Saint-Malo. Ships could sail only at night, and even then at great risk.
The Germans in Jersey were a monster striking out in its death throes. Two days earlier, they’d arrested a middle-aged woman for harboring a Russian worker, and they were scouring St. Ouen’s Parish, just north of St. Peter’s Parish, for escapees and helpers.
Had Ivy treated that worker? Would her name arise during interrogation?
He tensed, then sent the tension up into a prayer. No matter what, he didn’t want her to stop her work.
Gerrit had far greater concerns for the invasion itself. Protecting Ivy, Charlie, and the Jounys. Surviving long enough to be captured as a prisoner of war. Convincing the Allies that he and Bernardus were on the right side.
To that end, he’d decided that if he received orders to evacuate to the continent, he’d join Bernardus in hiding. Most of the foreign workers had been sent to work on the Atlantic Wall in France, but the staff remained to continue construction with local labor.
That could change at a moment’s notice. If Gerrit left Jersey, he’d lose his connections to the resistance—and to those who could vouch for his loyalty. He couldn’t allow that.
“Visitors.” Bernardus hobbled into the room with his crutch and flung open the wardrobe door. “Germans. Half a dozen. Ran up the drive. Half to the front door, half to the back.”
This was no agricultural inspection, and Gerrit flew into action, ticked off his list.
Unplug the lamp. Cap pen and secret ink vial. Stash pen, ink, and rulers in the basket to his side, which already contained his OT cap.
Had an informer told the Germans about Arthur’s wireless set or the suspicious new hermit of a farmworker? Or had the scouring of the countryside spread south from St. Ouen?
Either way, they could leave no evidence.
“Arthur!” Opal called in warning to Gerrit and Bernardus. “We have visitors!”
Bernardus stepped inside the compartment, and Gerrit passed the pane of glass to him, with the map and silk clamped in place. His alignment would be ruined, but he preferred that to death.
Loud voices and slamming doors downstairs.
He couldn’t panic, couldn’t rush, had to follow protocol. He handed his T square and the lamp to Bernardus. If the Germans touched the lamp, the heat might cue them to the men’s presence.
Gerrit stacked the books he’d used to elevate the glass, grabbed his jacket and basket, and scanned the room. Had he left anything incriminating? Not that he could see. Bernardus’s few personal possessions and Gerrit’s civilian clothes routinely resided in the secret compartment.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Gerrit’s heartbeat matched the rhythm.
“I can’t imagine what you’re looking for,” Opal said in a loud voice. “We follow all the agricultural regulations. We’ve never had a single violation.”
The loudness of her protests was designed to drown any noise from Gerrit and Bernardus.
As quietly as possible, Gerrit handed the basket and jacket toBernardus and stepped through. After he smoothed the linens in the wardrobe, he closed the wardrobe door, slid the back panel into place, and shut the compartment door.
A thump of a door opening, but not too close. Probably Arthur and Opal’s room. Two male voices, barking questions.
“I guarantee, you’ll not find a cow in my bed.” Opal’s polite indignation pierced the walls. “We register all calves at birth as required.”
Gerrit pressed back against the wall in the narrow space, and his blood whooshed loud in his ears. Bernardus’s heat radiated beside him.
Something rested on the floor where his right foot wanted to be. He didn’t dare scoot it lest it made noise. But he didn’t dare lose his balance, so he fumbled with his toes for a foothold.
Clipped Bernardus in the ankle. A tiny groan. The bad ankle, but Gerrit’s apology would have to wait.
