St. Lawrence, Jersey
Monday, May 24, 1943
In the wooded valley, Gerrit and Bernardus stood with Ernst Schmeling outsideHohlgangsanlage8, a large complex of tunnels being built as an ammunition depot.
The men strode through the arched entrance beside a narrow-gauge railway.
Inside the lantern-lit interior, the temperature dropped.
“Construction is slower than planned.” Schmeling’s voice reverberated off the plastered walls. “We’re low on cement and explosive charges. At least these stubborn islanders are now sharing in our suffering.”
Gerrit murmured as if agreeing. A month earlier, on the day he’d returned from leave, the RAF had sunk a supply boat and a German patrol boat. In reprisal, the Germans had reduced the weekly bread ration from four-and-a-half pounds to three pounds and twelve ounces. According to Charlie, this hurt the poor most of all, since the wealthy could afford the high prices for unrationed foods.
Gerrit walled in his words as he turned left, heading deeper intothe tunnel complex. If the Germans were suffering due to Allied air raids, what was that compared to the suffering they’d inflicted throughout Europe?
Surely Germany had no lack of medications, no diabetics dying for want of insulin.
Charlie had returned Gerrit’s satchel with a note, unaddressed and unsigned, in flowery but strong script, stating, “On behalf of the patients and physicians of Jersey, I thank you.”
Not only had Ivy Picot’s compassion overcome her pride, so had her manners.
The men passed a squad of workers unloading bags of cement from side-tipping railway wagons while a guard yelled at them. Demyan Marchenko’s squad, and the man met Gerrit’s eye without showing recognition, which was wise.
Marchenko grew gaunter and gaunter, and Gerrit’s hands coiled. How dare the Germans complain about suffering when they treated their workers so inhumanely?
Schmeling led Gerrit and Bernardus down a rough tunnel to the right, where construction had stalled. Foreign workers poked at the roof with poles to knock down loose rock, and they loaded the rubble into railway wagons.
Dangerous work. In April, falling rock had killed two Polish workers in these tunnels, and an accident and explosion in similar tunnels at Grands Vaux had caused multiple casualties.
Water dripped down the rock face, and the scent of damp stone filled the tunnel. Gerrit and Bernardus had come to take measurements and rock samples for the next phase of construction.
Cries rose behind him, from Marchenko’s squad. A wagon tipped to the side, and half a dozen bags of cement tumbled to the ground. Split. A powdery cloud rose.
“Imbeciles,” Schmeling said. “That’s good German cement.”
Shouts and cusses emerged from the pale cloud, fists raised to strike, to block.
A glint of steel. The guard raised a rifle, struck a man in the head.
“No!” Gerrit cried. The guard would kill the man, and Gerrit turned to run.
Someone gripped his arm. “Don’t,” Bernardus said, low and fierce.
“Let the guard do his job.” Schmeling wrinkled his nose. “Such carelessness must be punished.”
Thuds of blows on bone. Shouts. Screams.
“One thing,” Bernardus said with a growl. “One thing only.”
What good was Gerrit’s one thing of drawing maps if he let a man be beaten to death?
He yanked his arm free and sprinted down the tunnel.
Ahead of him, the guard and Marchenko stood wrestling, the rifle flashing between them.
A shot ricocheted, slammed Gerrit’s eardrums.
He dropped to squatting, covered his ears.
