Gerrit pulled the trigger. Branches exploded, and leaves flew every which way.
Would his eardrums ever recover?
Marchenko glared at them from under the arching branches of a tree. “How can you help?”
“We know someone,” Bernardus said. “I’ll take you there.”
“Who?” Gerrit said. They knew so few people in Jersey, and who lived in this area? “The Jounys? No.”
“They’re good people and clever. They’ll help him.”
“The Germans will send out a manhunt.” Gerrit waved toward the Jouny farm.
“We have no time to argue. Marchenko, come with me. Gerrit, pretend to search for ten minutes or so, fire another shot or two, then return. Tell them we split up. And pray.”
Gerrit stared at his friend’s back as Bernardus jogged up the road with the Ukrainian. What if the Germans searched the Jouny farm in their manhunt? Not only would they find Marchenko, but they might find evidence of Gerrit’s work.
One week after his close call, Charlie had picked up his “mending” and new cutout procedures, and Gerrit was sending maps and diagrams—sometimes two or three at a time—sewn with care by Opal Jouny into Charlie’s jacket.
Each map drawn at a desk in the farmhouse. Gerrit was careful to clean up, but what if he’d missed something?
Gerrit groaned and ran up the road to continue his fake search.
At the crossroads, Bernardus had turned left, so Gerrit turned right, ran a couple hundred meters, and fired a shot at another innocent hedgerow.
What else would he have Bernardus do? On his own, Marchenko might request assistance from an islander who wasn’t discreet, or worse—an informer for the Germans.
This was the only way they could save Marchenko’s life.
Pray, Bernardus had said. Gerrit slammed his eyes shut and prayed as if many lives depended on it. Which they did.
St. Helier
Thelma Galais pressed a hand over the bandage on her arm, bleeding from a minor injury which should have healed days ago. “Nothing can be done?”
For acute myeloid leukemia? Nothing, and Ivy’s jaw quivered. “Oh, these Germans.”
Thelma raised her hazel eyes, edged with red. “Sweet Ivy, you mustn’t become bitter.”
“But if they hadn’t come—”
“Would that change your treatment?”
No good treatments existed for the disease. “No, but you’d have better food. You’d be less prone to infection. And Edna and Frank would be here.”
Thelma’s face buckled, and she glanced around her drawing room, the same room where they’d learned of the deportation order. “I do wish I could say goodbye.”
Ivy had promised Edna she’d look after her mother, but she’d failed. Her vision wavered.
“Come now, brave Dr. Picot.” Thelma offered a watery smile. “Would your father cry delivering such news?”
Ivy wiped her tears. “For you, he might.”
Thelma tutted her tongue. “Do you have a drawing for me?”
With a shaky breath, Ivy collected herself and thumbed through her sketch pad. “You might be the only person on the island who will like this.”
Having given up on hiring a receptionist, Ivy had hired a girl as a housekeeper, and Aunt Ruby was serving as receptionist.
