Uncle Arthur crossed his arms. “He accidentally killed a guard who was beating one of his men for an innocent mistake. He ran, and a German officer shot him.”
Oh no. Ivy unwound the bandage to inspect the wound. The Germans wouldn’t stand for that. They’d turn the island upside down.
Aunt Opal knelt before the wardrobe and laid blankets inside. “I’m preparing a hiding place for him when you’re done. If the Germans come, he can pull the linens over himself.”
“You are kind,” Mr. Marchenko said. “I am glad they let me escape and brought me—”
“No!” Uncle Arthur thrust a finger at the patient. “Not a word.”
Let him escape? Ivy’s gaze darted between the men. What was happening?
The fugitive gave a slow nod. “You are right, comrade.”
Her uncle turned that finger toward Ivy. “You know better than to ask questions. You will tell no one what you saw today.”
“Of course not.” Nor would she tell her uncle that Mr. Marchenko wasn’t the first escapee she’d treated.
Aunt Opal fluffed a pillow in the wardrobe. “I cleaned the wound as best I could, but it won’t stop bleeding.”
Ivy inspected the wound. The bullet had plowed through the bicep, nicking the humerus and a vein. At least the bone wasn’t broken, but Ivy plucked out a few bone splinters.
Since her patient spoke excellent English, Ivy switched to Jèrriais. “Oncl’ye, you are in danger if he stays here.”
“I won’t turn him out.”
“He should be moved far from here. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ivy...”
She gave her uncle a firm glance. “You know better than to ask questions.”
He murmured in acceptance. “Be careful,ma nièche.”
Ivy threaded her needle and sutured the nicked vein.
Mr. Marchenko hissed through his teeth. “Do not mind me. Keep working.”
“You speak excellent English,” Ivy said.
“And you speak very poor French.”
Ivy chuckled. “We were speaking Jèrriais, our local language. Where are you from?”
“Kyiv. My parents were in the foreign service when I was a boy—London, Paris.”
Now a slave worker, wanted for murder. Intelligence shone in his gray eyes. Defiance. And fear.
chapter
20
St. Helier
Saturday, June 26, 1943
A sour chord from the piano jangled through the drawing room, and Ivy flinched.
Charlie started the piece again, but without his usual joking apologies for missed notes, and he’d missed many.
