Ivy concealed her sigh and sat at a desk with the empty chart. “What is your ailment?”
Mr. Sloan-Huntington gave her a tepid smile. “Whichever ailment will grant me an exemption.”
Ivy set down her pen. “You are perfectly healthy.”
“Say that I’m a diabetic taking insulin.”
“Sir, we have no more insulin in Jersey. All the diabetics are now in hospital so we can control their diet and activity.” Where they lived in a horrid state of slow starvation.
“A heart condition, perhaps.” He gestured to the chart in an impatient manner.
This was why Dr. Tipton had refused. Ivy sat back and gave the man a sympathetic look. “I can understand how alarming the order must be, but I cannot write a false report.”
“You can, and you will. I own one of the largest banks in Jersey. If I were deported, it would lead to financial catastrophe.”
Surely the man had competent employees, and Ivy tucked her pen in her pocket. “If the Germans discovered I wrote a false report, not only would they dismiss your case but those of all my patients. If they were deported, it might lead to medical catastrophe. I cannot allow that.”
“Enough of this nonsense.” His square chin hiked up. “Get on with it.”
Ivy stood and extended her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Sloan-Huntington. I wish you all the best in finding a more compliant doctor.”
“The nerve.” He shook a finger at her. “I’ll do so, and then I’ll see this practice ruined.”
Ivy opened the door for him, and he marched out.
Fern ducked in. “Oh no. What happened?”
“Perfectly healthy.”
Fern winced and glanced after the man, who was slamming the front door. “Oh dear. He would have been a great asset to the practice.”
“If I were caught writing a false report, the practice would be destroyed.” It still might be if Mr. Sloan-Huntington bent another doctor to his will and took his revenge. She blew out a sharp breath. “Who’s next?”
Fern ushered in Joe Sanderson, only thirty years old but with a weak heart from rheumatic fever and a pregnant wife on bed rest.
“I don’t know what to do.” Mr. Sanderson sat on the examination table and twisted his cap in his hands. “Alice can’t manage without me, not with the little ones.”
Ivy was already writing a list of all the reasons deporting this man and his family would be injurious to the health of man, wife, and baby. “If anyone deserves an exemption, you do. I’ll do my best.”
“What if they don’t accept it?” More twisting of his cap. “How will I get my medication? They won’t even tell me where we’re going.”
“I’ll write a prescription for several months’ supply, just in case. Take it to Carter’s Chemist’s. They’re nearby.”
“Mr. Carter got a deportation order too.”
Ivy snapped up her head. “He did?”
“His shop’s next door to mine.” Mr. Sanderson waved to the imaginary shopfront. “He’s busy with his own matters tonight, but Miss de Ferrers promised to keep the shop open all night if necessary.”
She would. Beneath Miss de Ferrers’s prickly edges lay a soft core. Ivy referred patients to their pharmacy whenever possible.
Ivy scanned the report and the prescription. “I’ll come to the Weighbridge tomorrow in case my patients need assistance with the board. Please don’t worry. Surely...”
Surely the Germans wouldn’t be so cruel as to deport the Sanderson family?
Ivy forced a smile and handed the papers to Mr. Sanderson. The Nazis specialized in cruelty and in erasing all goodness from the island. Why did God do nothing to stop them?
Wednesday, September 16, 1942
