Ivy clutched her purse tight to her stomach. Her family was falling apart, and she couldn’t stop it.
St. Catherine’s Bay
Monday, January 18, 1943
Oberbauführer Ernst Schmeling studied the plans Gerrit had drawn for tunnels to be bored behind the artillery bunker at Strongpoint Verclut, guarding St. Catherine’s Bay. Bernardus described the challenges with the rock formations in the area, and Schmeling complained about a load of cement lost earlier in the month when a cargo ship struck the rocks off Jersey’s Noirmont Point. Over one hundred German soldiers on leave had perished.
Gerrit turned up the collar of his greatcoat against the chilly wind that buffeted around the promontory and frosted blue waves white with foam.
Two dozen foreign workers carried lumber from the breakwater toward the bunker, led by Demyan Marchenko.
Whenever possible, Gerrit slipped Marchenko food to share with his men, as he did with other squad leaders who spoke German or English. Marchenko spoke both well.
On the last portion of the journey, the squad of workers left the road and picked their way over rocky soil, with their feet bound in rags—or nothing.
Inside Gerrit’s boots, his toes curled, warm and protected.
A cry, and a man stumbled, struggled to keep the beam of lumber on his shoulder. His companion carrying the other end lost his grip. The beam swung to the side and banged a guard in the leg.
The guard fell, cursed. The beam thudded to the ground.
Those men would be beaten.
Gerrit darted around Schmeling.
“Don’t.” Schmeling grabbed Gerrit’s arm. “The guards will handle this.”
That’s what Gerrit feared.
The guard rose, cursed, truncheon raised.
Marchenko stepped between the guard and his men, and he lifted his hands. “Let him be. It was a simple accident.”
“Out of my way.” The guard shook his truncheon. “They are lazy, wicked—”
“They are neither.” Marchenko spoke with gentle authority. “They are cold, tired, and have no shoes. They are fed like mice but are expected to work like oxen. Yet see, they are already back at work. And they are sorry.” He called to the workers in Ukrainian.
“Tak! Tak!”The men wrestled their beam onto a pile near the bunker entrance.
“Yes, they are sorry and promise to work twice as hard. If it happens again, I will say nothing.” Marchenko tipped his head toward the truncheon.
The guard growled, but the truncheon lowered. “This time only.”
“That is fair. Thank you, comrade.” Marchenko headed down toward the breakwater.
A rumble rolled in Schmeling’s throat. “That Russian is playing a dangerous game.”
“He plays it well.” Bernardus gestured to the workers. “Those men will now work harder than if they’d been beaten.”
“Nein.” Schmeling’s pale eyes turned to slits. “He is too proud, stands too tall. He needs more respect for his superiors.”
In no way was Marchenko inferior. “I’ll talk to him. Excuse me, Herr Oberbauführer.” Gerrit jogged down the slope before Schmeling could stop him.
At the base of the breakwater, Marchenko stood in a queue before a lorry stacked with lumber.
“Good afternoon, Marchenko.” Gerrit spoke in English, which few on the worksite understood.
“Good afternoon, van der Zee.”
