Gerrit hadn’t seen a lemon since the Nazis invaded the Netherlands in May 1940. He’d forgotten the brilliance of yellow, the tangy smell. “How...?”
“He said he got it in France. Black market, no doubt.” Bernardus rotated the fruit in his gloved hand. “Enterprising lad.”
He was. “Why did he give it to you?”
A slight smile creased Bernardus’s cheeks. “He only said, ‘I hope you find it of use.’”
Gerrit could still see the candle flame reflecting in Charlie’s bright eyes as he talked about secret messages in lemon juice.
He scowled at Bernardus. “No.”
Bernardus shrugged, and his smile deepened.
Gerrit took one step closer. “You didn’t tell him about the letter, did you?”
“No. Did you?”
“Of course not.” When held to the light, the secret ink in theletter from Saint-Malo had revealed the resistance suggestion to use Charlie as a courier, to smuggle pieces of Gerrit’s maps folded inside the boy’s shoes.
Gerrit and Bernardus had not replied to that letter, their silence serving as refusal. Sending maps of German military installations in plain ink would be foolish. If Charlie were searched for any reason—like buying lemons on the black market—and they removed his shoes in the search, he would be tortured and shot, and during torture might condemn countless others to death.
Bernardus tossed the lemon up and down. “Charlie has never repeated his offer. Until now.”
The yellow orb rose and fell and rose again. With one gesture, with few and carefully chosen words, Charlie had indeed repeated his offer—and his willingness to participate.
Bernardus snatched the lemon from the air and held it in his fist toward Gerrit. “We should do it.”
“No. This changes nothing.”
“This changes everything.”
“He’s still a fifteen-year-old boy. I won’t risk his life.” The lovely face of Ivy Picot flashed through his mind. How she doted on her little brother. How she protected him.
“He’s willing to risk his own life.” Bernardus shook his fist. “Trace the maps in lemon juice, and I’ll write a florid love letter in regular ink on the other side. It’ll work. We have the network’s instructions on how Charlie should transfer the maps in Saint-Malo, his ‘cutout,’ they call it.”
Gerrit shut his eyes against all that yellow. “How can we trust those instructions? That cutout? It’s too far out of our hands, out of our sight, out of our control. We can’t guarantee the maps will reach the Allies.”
Bernardus fell silent, then sighed. “Could we ever?”
“No, we couldn’t.” Heavy though they were, Gerrit’s eyelids lifted. “We can’t do it. I refuse to be responsible for more deaths.”
“More?”
Gerrit’s mouth twitched. He’d said too much. He turned for the footpath. “We should go. Dinner.”
“Deaths? Whose deaths are you responsible for?”
Gerrit forged his way up the path. Didn’t Bernardus know? Of course not. How could he? Gerrit had certainly never told him.
“What are you saying?” Bernardus’s tone pierced Gerrit’s back like a sword.
“Dirk,” Gerrit said. “Cilla.”
“Dirk? Cilla?” Bernardus grabbed Gerrit’s arm and jerked him around. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” Gerrit tried to wrest his arm free, failed. Tried to wrest his gaze from Bernardus’s gaze—even more piercing than his tone. Failed again.
“I did nothing.” Gerrit’s voice deflated. “Or not enough. I don’t know.”
