Schmeling led Gerrit and Bernardus onto the pier and aboard a small cargo ship. “This ship has just arrived from Saint-Malo with a load of cement. An English boat with an English crew.”
“We’re not English. We’re Jerseymen.” A young man coiled a line. He had dark hair and eyes paired with a light complexion, a common combination on the island.
Schmeling nodded at the boy, not dismissive, but not accepting, and he strode across the deck toward the captain.
Bernardus approached the boy—yes, still a boy—with gangly limbs and spots on his chin and nose. “We are new to the Channel Islands. Please explain the difference.”
The boy looped the line in a figure eight around two metal cleats on the deck. “The States of Jersey are a crown dependency—as is Guernsey. We are part of Britain, but not part of the United Kingdom, not part of England. We have our own currency, our own states chamber—similar to parliament—our own courts, and our own laws. We were quite independent. Until your lot came.”
“We are not German,” Bernardus said. “We are Dutch.”
The boy glanced at the swastika armband around the sleeve of Bernardus’s uniform jacket. “You serve the Germans.”
“So do you.”
“Bernardus,” Gerrit grumbled. What was he doing?
“I do not.” The boy stood straight, several centimeters shorter than Bernardus. “This is a Jersey boat.”
“Carrying supplies for the Germans.”
The boy’s eyelids twitched.
Bernardus stepped closer to the young man. “We who live under occupation have few choices, yes? We must work for them on our terms—or on theirs.” He jerked his head toward the slave workers waiting to unload the ship.
The boy followed Bernardus’s line of sight, then gave him a look of shock.
Bernardus leaned his head close to the boy’s shoulder. “You don’t like the Nazis, do you?”
Gerrit glanced toward Schmeling in conversation with the captain—too far away to hear, but never far enough. “Bernardus,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ll get him arrested.”
The boy’s gaze flicked around the deck, between Gerrit and Bernardus and Schmeling. Then he met Bernardus’s gaze with a blaze of defiance. “I do not,” he whispered.
“Neither do we,” Bernardus whispered back. Then he grinned and extended his hand. “I am Bernardus Kroon, and this is my friend Gerrit van der Zee.” His voice returned to normal volume.
“Charlie ... Charlie Picot.”
“How do you do, Mr. Picot?” Bernardus crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Do you make this run often?”
“Yes.” Charlie shot a glance at the captain and resumed coiling the line.
“It’ll be a pleasure to work with you. I’m a geologist, and Gerrit is a civil engineer. Gerrit will be inspecting your cargo.”
Charlie jerked up his head. “You—you’ll find nothing amiss.”
Bernardus ducked down to the boy. “A shame.”
“Come along, van der Zee, Kroon.” Schmeling beckoned them to the hatch. “Jersey customs officials have already checkedfor contraband. They found none.” He led the way through the hatch.
Gerrit climbed down a ladder into the hold.
“You were issued pocketknives, ja?” Schmeling pulled one from his trousers and turned to the neat stacks of bags. “Select a few random bags and cut them open near the top. Make sure they contain cement. It is better to discover sabotage here on the docks, where we might be able to trace the source, than on the worksite.”
Bernardus flashed Gerrit a mischievous look, accelerating.
Gerrit slammed on the brakes with a quick scowl. A possible way to commit sabotage, but it would require careful thought.
He wrestled a bag from the top of the pile and slashed it open. The familiar feel and scent of cement met his fingertips and nostrils.
