“Oh, Charlie.” Ivy gripped his arm again, with affection rather than alarm. “The practice concerns me far less than your safety. You know how many people have been sentenced to prison simply for making jokes about the Germans, for insulting them. You mustn’t let your guard down around those men.”
Charlie sighed and glanced away.
Ivy steadied her breath. Whatever attraction she’d felt, she could never associate with a man who had betrayed his country, a man who condoned the abuse of his fellow man.
She mustn’t let her guard down either.
chapter
7
St. Helier
Friday, September 25, 1942
In the hold of the SSOrmer, Gerrit braced his feet wide as the ship rocked in rough weather. He tore off a bit of bread, sliced a sliver of cheese, and handed it to the next worker in the queue.
The man’s craggy face lit up, and joyful words burst forth.
“Nyet,” Gerrit whispered. “Nein.” He slammed a finger to his lips, then mimed chewing, swallowing, and frowning.
But excitement bubbled among the bags of cement.
Although Bernardus had insisted this was a bad idea, he’d sweet-talked a lady in the hotel kitchen into giving him the bread and cheese, supposedly for his own lunch, and now he stood on deck, chatting with Charlie Picot, ready to call “Ahoy there!” if an OT officer approached.
Gerrit passed bread and cheese to the next man and repeated his miming.
A wicked scar slashed through the worker’s cheek and eyebrow. “You would like us to finish this before returning to deck, yes?” He spoke in fluent German.
Gerrit blinked in surprise. “Yes, thank you. They must be quiet,must not discuss this, even amongst themselves, must not look pleased.”
“Understood.” The worker glanced around with quick intelligent eyes. “One each?”
Gerrit turned his shoulder to the press of men so he could keep distributing food. “Yes. This is all I have—one loaf of bread, one block of cheese.”
The worker spoke to the men in a Slavic tongue, and the men responded with murmurs of understanding.
“I will stay with you, explain, help.”
“Thank you.” Gerrit held out the cheese and knife.
“Nein!” He flung up both hands. “If the guards catch me with a weapon...”
Gerrit winced. He’d seen what the guards did at the smallest offense, and he handed his helper the loaf of bread instead.
Together, they distributed the feeble snack.
“You are from Russia?” Gerrit asked.
“Ukraine. All the men in this squad are.” He wore a Soviet officer’s uniform, knees worn through, one sleeve hanging loose, one red epaulette dangling. He repeated instructions in Ukrainian in a firm tone.
Grateful gazes met Gerrit’s, but the workers assumed a neutral expression, obeying the officer as they stuffed the morsels into their dirty mouths.
“I cannot do this every day,” Gerrit said. “I may never be able to do this again. But I’ll do what I can.”
“If we are discovered, the consequences would be bad for all of us. Even you.”
“My friend is keeping watch.”
