“Oh yes. You have your scruples.” Fern passed Ivy on the landing and headed up the second flight of stairs. “You’ll find scruples make rather poor company.”
Ivy fumbled for the doorjamb leading to the drawing room, leaned back, covered her mouth. Was Fern falling in love? With a German?
“Excuse me.” Charlie edged past Ivy with his candle, his head down.
“Did you—did you hear?” Ivy’s words strangled in her throat.
“Mm.” Charlie climbed the stairs. “Good night.”
Her brother, her sister, her whole family—falling to pieces. No one to turn to. No one to lean on.
Save one. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Lord, help me. Help us.”
St. Peter’s Parish
Sunday, June 27, 1943
“It’s over.” Charlie leaned against the cabinet in the Jounys’ kitchen, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.
After church, Charlie had invited Gerrit and Bernardus to “hike,” meaning to meet at the farm, but Gerrit and Bernardus had planned to spend the warm day at the beach with Willy Riedel, part of their campaign to cultivate friendships with their OT colleagues. Something in Charlie’s tone had implied this was no Sunday picnic, so they’d split up for the afternoon.
Gerrit sat at the table and motioned to another chair for Charlie. “What’s over?”
“Everything.” Charlie shoved away from the cabinet and marched toward the oven. “Yesterday, on my way to my meeting place, that man—the man in the hat—he was outside.”
Gerrit pulled off his OT cap. “Gestapo.”
“He didn’t see me.” Charlie strode toward the sink and fiddled with the curtains, even though they were already drawn. “I went straight back to the docks. Marie refused to see me—spooked. I forced my way in. Not gentlemanly, but I was worried for her.”
And for himself. Gerrit murmured his acknowledgment.
Charlie planted his hands on the rim of the sink and hung his head. “Members of the network have been disappearing, arrested. Marie’s afraid she’ll be next. I tried to convince her to come here with me, but she won’t.”
“Oh no.” Gerrit set his elbows on the table, set his head in his hands. How many had been arrested? What horrors must they be going through?
What if they had Gerrit’s maps? What if the Gestapo suspected the presence of secret ink? They could develop it. Trace the maps to Gerrit—and worse, to Charlie.
“What are we going to do?” Charlie’s voice cracked, from terror, from youth.
Gerrit dragged up his head. “What can we do? We must stop sending maps.”
“I know. I know.” Charlie ruffled his black hair, mussed it up.
The Gestapo might be looking for Charlie. “Don’t return to France. Find a new job, go back to school, anything.”
“No, no.” Charlie trod the kitchen floor and smoothed his hair. “If they suspect me, and I stopped making trips...”
Gerrit’s eyes slipped shut. “You’d look guilty. They’d know where to find you.”
Mumbles and footsteps crossed the kitchen. “I’ll have Aunt Opal remove the map in my jacket, and I’ll burn it.”
“Don’t.” The quickness of his reply surprised him, and his eyes popped open. “I’ll keep making maps.”
“Why? It’s futile.”
“I don’t know.” Gerrit ran his hands up and down the brown wool of his trousers. “The situation may change. All I know is I must draw maps. I’ll keep stashing them in your aunt’s fabric basket, keep making them until I run out of silk or ink.”
Charlie plopped into the chair, and his body sagged. “Did I do something wrong? Lead the Gestapo to my cutout?”
