“Thank you. He was my friend. He—he called me comrade.” His voice broke, and he glanced away, his cheeks red and agitated. “Go. Quickly.”
“Yes.” She turned, picked up her bicycle, and pedaled away. Why would a slave worker call a Todt man his comrade?
She saw—and yet didn’t see at all.
chapter
23
St. Helier
Saturday, August 28, 1943
Even the extraordinary talent of Germany’s propagandists failed to turn the German defeats in Sicily and Ukraine into victories for the newsreel.
Gerrit fidgeted in his seat in the Forum’s darkened theater. The film itself was slightly less inane than the newsreel, but watching it—even cheering when the Germans did—soothed suspicions in Organisation Todt.
As his punishment for defying OT and for losing Ivy’s sketch on his frenzied bicycle ride—as he had claimed—Gerrit had been deprived of privileges for a month. A pittance of a penalty in comparison to what Marchenko had suffered.
Gerrit clamped his hands over his knees. He could still see his friend’s body, hear Ivy’s enraged howl. But Marchenko had received a decent burial in the Strangers Cemetery at St. Brelade with dozens of his comrades who had died in the past year. Ivy had been correct—the people of Jersey insisted upon it. The German field commander, eager to be seen as benevolent, had complied.
The praise from the upper echelons of society for Gerrit’s humane actions had forced OT into that pittance of a punishment. But Schmeling now watched him with a mix of contempt and suspicion. Gerrit needed to be on his best behavior.
Sitting to Gerrit’s left, Willy Riedel laughed at the scene on the cinema screen, and Gerrit joined in. He and Bernardus had increased their social outings with their colleagues, but Bernardus had begged off tonight.
Gerrit would rather be at the Jouny farmhouse, where he’d spent a pleasant afternoon drawing maps while Bernardus and Arthur listened to the BBC. At Bernardus’s request, he’d traced a map of land mines along St. Aubin’s Bay. Soon he’d run out of silk and secret ink, but until he did, he planned to keep drawing in case a new contact arose.
Two rows ahead of him in the theater, a woman tipped her head, angling her hat higher.
Fern Le Corre, sitting with a German officer.
In public. Unashamed.
The Forum was open to islanders as well as Germans, but the only locals in attendance were women accompanying German soldiers. Women who had earned derisive nicknames from their neighbors.
Didn’t Fern care how her decisions affected her sister and brother?
“Gerrit?” A fierce whisper. A tap on his shoulder.
Charlie Picot crouched in the aisle, his eyes frantic in the eerie gray light from the screen. “Come with me. It’s an emergency.”
“Emer—”
“Come.” Charlie marched back up the aisle.
“Excuse me,” Gerrit said to Riedel, who gave him a curious look.
Gerrit rushed to catch up. What kind of emergency? How could he help?
Outside in the darkness, Charlie strode to a black car used by OT. “Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Charlie opened the passenger door. “I can’t. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill anyone driving here.”
“What ... how...?”
“Get in. Drive.” Charlie slammed the door shut.
