The officer cast a glance up the ladder. “You are new, yes? You still seem surprised by the actions of your people.”
“I’m not German. I’m Dutch. My name is Gerrit van der Zee. And I’m no Nazi.”
“Lt. Demyan Marchenko.” He scanned Gerrit’s uniform, notwith the repugnance Dr. Ivy Picot had shown but with detachment, as if making allowance for compromise in times of war.
The latter cut as deeply as the former.
Marchenko passed out the last piece of bread. “Whoever you are, you are our comrade, and we thank you.”
With his lips pressed tight, Gerrit passed out the final slivers of cheese.
Marchenko brushed crumbs from his fingers into his palm and cupped his hand to his mouth.
Not one crumb littered the deck of the hold, and that wrenched through Gerrit.
Marchenko shouldered the last bag of concrete, gave Gerrit a strong nod, and climbed out of the hold.
Gerrit pulled in a breath over his roughened throat and checked the hold for any evidence. With his clipboard and the empty bread bag in hand, he returned to the deck, where Bernardus and Charlie were laughing about something.
Bernardus raised a pale eyebrow at Gerrit. “Your inspection went well?”
“Indeed.”
“Come along, then. Goodbye, Charlie.” Bernardus shook the boy’s hand. “We’re going out to Elizabeth Castle.”
Charlie sent a wistful smile toward the bay. He shared his sister’s striking coloring. “I used to love running around the castle, pretending to be a soldier.”
Now the Germans had taken over the castle’s original fortifications and added modern ones.
Gerrit and Bernardus said goodbye and strolled down the pier and onto the Esplanade, staying within the wire fencing that kept the civilians away from the harbor and beaches. Clouds darkened the southwest horizon, and wind tossed the clouds closer to the island.
Bernardus went down the steps to the beach.
Gerrit gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Riedel’s supposed to meet us here.”
“He’ll catch up.” Bernardus kept walking, sand kicking out from under his black boots.
Gerrit trotted down the steps and crossed the gentle slope of beach to the narrow concrete causeway that led to the castle at low tide.
Ahead of them, the castle rose in a stony mound with a mixture of Elizabethan and Napoleonic era architecture. The Germans were adding sleek modern concrete batteries and observation posts that didn’t belong.
Wind heavy with sea spray tugged at Gerrit’s overseas cap. Although tempted to allow it to steal the bit of brown cloth with red piping that labeled him as a Nazi, Gerrit stuffed it in his pocket.
Holding his own cap in hand, Bernardus looked back over his shoulder. “Charlie Picot is doing us a favor.”
“Yes?”
“He’s delivering a letter to my girlfriend in Saint-Malo.”
Gerrit stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“Keep walking. After Riedel joins us, we’ll no longer be able to talk.”
Gerrit jogged to catch up over the damp sand on the causeway. “Civilians aren’t allowed to carry mail to France. I read it in the local newspaper.”
“Charlie knows. He doesn’t mind.”
“You didn’t tell him what the letter is about, did—”
