“Why’d you come, Ivy?” Charlie asked in a weak voice.
She chewed on her lips as she slipped two tablets from a bottle and into her brother’s mouth. Only the truth could explain her actions, but the truth would inflict pain. “Fern found out about Gerrit and me. She saw the connection between Gerrit and Bernardus and your escape attempt. She decided we’re all traitors.”
“Traitors?” Charlie huffed. “We’re loyal to the Allies.”
Ivy’s gaze slid to Gerrit. “She denounced me to the secret police. You too, Gerrit. The police were on their way to my house—and to your hotel. Fern and I—we fought. I locked her in the supply room and escaped by car.”
Gerrit’s jaw dangled.
Ivy’s gut heaved, over and over, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her sister. Her own sister.
“Ivy.” From his position manning the motor, Gerrit reached for her.
She sagged into his embrace, and sobs released, freeing, cleansing.
“I was right,” Gerrit said in a fierce tone. “I knew you wouldn’t risk our escape unless it was vital. I saw, Ivy. I saw.”
“He fought for you.” Charlie’s voice strengthened. “They didn’t want to go back.”
“With good reason.” The stranger huffed, his eyes dark. “We could have been blown to pieces.”
“No, Jack,” Bernardus said. “Gerrit was right.”
“You should have heard him, Ivy,” Charlie said. “‘Think of the names Ivy knows,’ he said. ‘Deputy Bertram, Uncle Arthur, Aunt Opal, Dr. Tipton, all the people who helped Bernardus hide.’”
“You saved my life that night I was injured.” Bernardus gave Ivy a sheepish look. “Gerrit said I owed it to you to go back. You risked your life to save mine. The least I could do was risk my life to save yours.”
Ivy wiped her eyes with her coat sleeve and twisted to see Gerrit’s face better. He’d fought for her, and she pressed a kiss to his chin. “Far better than poetry.”
chapter
43
Monday, October 9, 1944
Fire burned in Gerrit’s shoulders and biceps. How many years since he’d last rowed?
Right before sunrise, they’d run out of petrol and had taken turns rowing. Through the night and morning and into the afternoon, Charlie had slept fitfully and the rest of them had snatched bits of sleep and nibbled the provisions of bread and apples.
Sweat needled Gerrit’s scalp under the bandage Ivy had tied about his head in lieu of a hat. He looked ridiculous, but he preferred to avoid a sunburnt scalp.
In the stern, Ivy used a bucket to bail the seawater that slopped inside or leaked through.
Behind Gerrit, Jack raised a Union Jack on the mast to identify them to the Allies as a friendly vessel. “We’re getting close. I see houses. That had better be France, not Jersey.”
“It’s France.” Gerrit leaned forward to start another stroke.
“A lot of boats have blown back to Jersey. What if—”
“We have a compass.” Gerrit kept his tone patient, although Jack had raised the concern a dozen times in as many hours. “We’veheld an east-southeast course as instructed, and we have a westerly wind.”
Jack grumbled. “You’d better be right, because I see men on shore. They have guns. They’ve spotted us.”
Gerrit glanced at Bernardus, and his friend nodded. They paused with their oars out of the water, fished their pistols from their suit jackets, and handed them to Ivy. “Drop these over the stern.”
Her brown eyes enormous, Ivy held the pistols by their handles.
“Don’t!” Jack cried. “We might need them.”
