In the open window, the kitchen curtains fluttered in the breeze. “All my work is in vain, a mist in the wind. Why—why hasn’t God done anything?”
A look crossed Ivy’s face—a look he’d never seen before. A twitch near her nose, a furrow in her brow, a tightening of her mouth. “My sister is a notorious collaborator. My brother lost his job. My medical practice is failing. I have no idea how I’ll pay for medical supplies or food or wood. But I’m trying—I’m determined to remember God’s goodness. Heisgood, and he’s good to me. He’s helping me through. Thank goodness, because he’s all I have.”
She’d left him out. Because he’d left her out, and his mouth and heart fell open.
She folded her arms across her well-worn dress, and she blinked too many times. She looked so small, so thin. So alone.
“Ivy...” His voice grated over his throat.
She shook herself and pulled tall. “I don’t understand. The Allies are winning. Isn’t that enough for you?”
It should have been. Why wasn’t it? Was he working for Allied victory? Or Gerrit’s victory?
A groan ripped through him. “I’m sorry.”
He shoved his feet toward her and gathered her in his arms. She stood stiff in his embrace, and he kissed her hair. “It is enough. It will be. I’ll get through this. I’m sorry,mijn geliefde.”
Ivy relaxed, and her arms wound around him. “What does that mean?”
“‘Mijn geliefde’ means ‘my beloved.’ That’s what you are.” He kissed her hair again and rocked her. “I’m sorry I didn’t treat you that way. I’ll never leave you alone again.”
She pressed her face to his chest and rubbed circles on his back. “Nor I you.”
chapter
36
St. Helier
Saturday, September 23, 1944
To Ivy, silence had always meant peace, but not now.
Without a word, Ivy and Fern prepared their breakfasts at opposite ends of the kitchen. The gas supply had ceased on the fourth of September, so Ivy stirred oats she’d soaked in cold water the night before and added a handful of the blackberries she’d picked whilst on her rounds the other day.
On the kitchen table sat dinner for her and Charlie—a crockery dish of potatoes and vegetables she’d take to the Picots’ assigned bakery to cook all day. Since Fern always ate out for dinner now, she took no responsibility for the evening meal.
No sounds had yet arisen from Charlie’s room. After losing his job, he’d looked for work each day and taken odd jobs when he could find them. Recently he’d spent evenings with old school chums, which had cheered him.
Someone banged on the front door, and Ivy frowned. The surgery didn’t open for another hour and a half, and medical emergencies went to the casualty department at General Hospital.
She strode to the door, wiping her hands on her apron as she went, with Fern behind her.
“Open the door!” a man yelled.
Ivy’s blood crystallized, and her breath hitched. Germans? Had they learned she treated escapees?
A quick prayer, and she opened the door.
Five men in overcoats and trilby hats stood on the stoop. “We’re looking for Charles Picot.”
What had Charlie done? He hadn’t served as Gerrit’s courier for several months. Ivy struggled for composure. “Charlie? He hasn’t come down for breakfast yet.”
The leader, a man around forty, motioned for the other two men to enter the house. “Find him.”
“I beg your pardon.” Fern stepped in their way with a beautiful smile and an outstretched hand. “My name is Fern Le Corre, and I work for the Feldkommandantur—rather the Platzkommandantur now. Charles is my brother. You are Hauptwachtmeister Karl-Heinz Wölfle of the Geheime Feldpolizei, yes? How may I help you?”
The man known as the “Wolf of the Gestapo”? Ivy’s breath snagged on her throat. Thank goodness Fern was using her charm to intervene.
