“Good afternoon, ladies.” He rolled his bicycle toward the farmhouse, thankful as always for the hedgerows and granite walls that shielded the farm from sight of the main road.
The note from Ivy crinkled in his uniform pocket. After church, she’d passed his pew, and a piece of paper had fluttered down beside him.
A sketch of a puffin with a note concealed in the shading, telling him to meet her at the farm at one o’clock on a most urgent matter.
Urgent indeed if she’d risked writing to him and meeting with him. Was it news about Charlie? Gerrit had no way of learning of his welfare.
In case the secret police watched the front door, Gerrit went to the back and knocked.
Arthur threw open the door and pulled Gerrit and his bicycle inside, and then he left the kitchen.
Drawing the curtains at the kitchen window, Ivy looked paleand haggard, not unexpected after a fortnight of worry for Charlie and scrutiny by the Germans.
But beautiful. So beautiful. “Ivy?”
“Oh, Gerrit.” She dashed into his arms and kissed him.
Never had they kissed with such fervency, such hunger, and he longed to keep kissing her that way forever.
But he couldn’t. He pulled back. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Charlie.” Her brown eyes shimmered with worry. “He’s developed an infection, and he isn’t responding to treatment. He needs medications we don’t have in Jersey.”
“Oh, darling.” His chest constricted, and he gathered her closer.
“His only hope for treatment is to escape to France.”
“France?”
“It’s all been arranged, and he wants you and Bernardus to come too.”
He drew back his chin so he could look her in the eye. “Me?”
“He’s weak. He must be carried. Bernardus may be strong, but he needs a crutch to walk. He can’t carry Charlie alone. And Charlie is worried about you, about the maps. How long until the Germans figure out what’s on them?”
Behind Ivy’s back, Gerrit’s hand worked. “I need to think.”
“It’s tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“It must be tonight. The helper has a boat and an outboard motor, and he says the moon and tides favor an escape. And Charlie—his doctor doesn’t know how long—” Ivy’s face crumpled, and she leaned her head against Gerrit’s chest.
His hand and his mind worked in tandem. What remained for him in Jersey? Manual labor, no ability to aid the Allies, and a possible appointment with a noose.
Escape would be exceedingly risky and a declaration of guilt. If he were captured, he’d be executed.
But helping his friend was the right course of action, regardless of what happened. Charlie’s injury might not have been hisresponsibility, but Gerrit would take responsibility for helping him survive.
“I’ll go,” he said, his voice rough. “I have my satchel, everything I need.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a sweet little kiss, a tender look, and then she stepped back and removed a scrap of paper from her skirt pocket. “This is a map to the embarkation point in Fauvic in the southeast corner of the island. You need to memorize the directions, then I’ll burn this.”
Gerrit studied the hand-drawn map. The location was well chosen. Since the Germans had expected an Allied invasion on the broad, gentle beaches to the west and south, the east coast was poorly fortified.
The Germans had coastal artillery three kilometers north at Gorey and resistance nests one kilometer south at La Rocque and one kilometer north at Fort Henry, but near Fauvic only an “action point” at Le Hurel, which was manned only during alerts. And no mines or barbed wire protected the beach.
Ivy pointed at two squares on the coastal road. “You’ll see an attractive white two-story house. Directly north is a one-story granite barn, your meeting place. Please arrive at nine o’clock tonight. Charlie and Bernardus will arrive separately. The Bertram family will help you. Tell them your name is Gary.”
