“Good evening, Dr. Picot.” A man passed—a physician—and he eyed Gerrit.
“Is that the hospital, miss?” Gerrit asked. “Thank you for showing me the way.”
He was helping her save face, and she lifted her eyebrows at him.
Gerrit glanced over Ivy’s shoulder for a moment, then leaned closer. “You shouldn’t be seen talking with me, especially with what your sister’s done. Charlie told me.”
Ivy’s mouth pursed. She’d need to talk to Charlie about discussing private family matters. Except Fern’s actions were hardly private.
“This way.” She strode toward the hospital, where the Germans had requisitioned the best of the facilities.
“Charlie is quite unhappy about it.” Gerrit caught up with her. “How are you managing without Fern? Isn’t she your receptionist?”
Wasn’t he worried about her being seen talking with him? Yet, sympathy had a strong appeal. “She hired a new girl, but the girl left after only one week.” The poor thing didn’t understand how to take a telephone message much less handle the appointment book.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The arched doorway to the hospital neared. “My Aunt Ruby is helping more, and we have adverts in theEvening Post—when they have enough paper to print, that is.”
“I hope you find someone soon.”
“Thank you. And I hope your hand feels better soon. The German clinic is on the ground floor.” She pointed the way.
Gerrit gave her a slight smile, a slight bow. “Thank you for your help, Fräulein.”
Sure enough, another physician was right behind her.
Ivy spun away and marched inside toward the stairs.
Gerrit’s understanding was sweet on the tongue, soothing in the belly, warm in the veins. It ... nourished.
She wriggled and groaned. She had to rid herself of the sensation. Even if his character were as it appeared, friendship would be wrong and ruinous.
And his lack of honor in joining Organisation Todt cast a dark shadow on that character.
St. Helier
Saturday, February 27, 1943
Drawing maps on silk in secret ink sounded great until Gerrit tried to do it.
Silk, being silky, wanted to slip. And secret ink, being invisible, made marking his position difficult.
This afternoon, he’d furtively borrowed a detailed map of Jersey from OT Headquarters in St. Helier, to be furtively returned tomorrow morning.
Clamps and weights braced the paper map and a piece of parachute silk on a pane of glass. On his desk in the hotel room he shared with Bernardus, he’d elevated the glass on books and boxes and laid his desk lamp on its side underneath, all to illuminate the lines on the map through the silk.
Holding a pin from his mending kit to where his last pen stroke ended, Gerrit dipped the brass nib in the secret ink and resumed tracing. This master map of the island, marked in a numbered grid, would be used to orient the Allies to future smaller-scale maps of various grid sectors.
Gerrit needed to finish in one sitting, since perfectly realigning the silk over the paper map would be impossible.
The OT men had gone to see a film at the Forum theater and to visit the pubs, and Bernardus had accompanied them to maintain the appearance of loyalty. Without interruptions, Gerrit could finish by eleven o’clock when the electricity in Jersey was cut off each night.
His pen dragged as the ink ran low. With his right hand, he marked his position with the sewing pin, and he took a moment to stretch out the soreness in his left hand. It had never quite healed from his boyhood injury, and the sprain almost three weeks ago had increased the soreness.
Warmth filled his chest from the memory of Ivy’s upturned face in the dim light and from the evidence of her generosity, her thoughtfulness, and her spirit.
In different times, he would have done everything possible to spend more time with her. Instead, he avoided her company to protect her reputation.
