“The same agent?” Gerrit exchanged a glance with Bernardus. “How did he escape arrest this summer?”
“He was in England during the rollup.”
“Convenient.” Bernardus’s eyes narrowed.
“No, I trust him.” Charlie cupped his hands over his knees. “And they found the informant and liquidated him.”
Ivy gasped and covered her mouth.
Charlie nodded to Gerrit. “They want your maps. They know the Todts are leaving the Channel Islands, and they want as much intelligence as possible before you’re sent away.”
Gerrit winced. Each week, more of the foreign workers were sent to France, and speculation flew about how long the OT technical and headquarters staff would remain.
“Regardless,” Bernardus said. “They aren’t my contacts, the people I know. I have no connection to them. How can I trust them?”
“I know nothing about such things.” Ivy pursed her mouth and gripped her hands in her lap. “However, if the British agent had betrayed the resistance, wouldn’t you three have been arrested during this rollup as well?”
Gerrit raised an eyebrow. She had a point. Plenty of time had passed since the arrests. If anyone were to have implicated them under torture, they would have already done so.
“I don’t like it,” Bernardus said.
Yet Bernardus would be less involved now. The bulk of the work would lie with Gerrit and Charlie.
“Please?” Charlie’s brow creased. “The British and Americans are driving up Italy, but everyone knows they must invade in the west to defeat Germany. They need up-to-date information. We can provide it.”
Gerrit’s foot tapped, eager to stomp on the brakes. His fingers worked, eager to draw, to do something worthwhile. Yet neither impulse was reliable.
On the floor, shadows of branches waved in the sunbeams, void of advice or answers.
Gerrit stood. “I need to think, to pray. I’ll return in half an hour.”
Downstairs in the drawing room, Arthur and Opal sat reading. Gerrit gave them a polite smile and entered the kitchen. He rested his hands on the rim of the sink. Outside the kitchen window, brown Jersey cows nibbled green grass.
“Lord, help me decide.” So many people would be affected. Charlie, Bernardus, Ivy, Arthur, Opal, Marie, the British agent, and others he didn’t know by name. Simply because he wanted to aid the Allies and undermine the Germans didn’t mean he should.
“Oh, excuse me.” Ivy stood in the kitchen doorway, her hand on the knob. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Don’t mind me.” He waved her in.
“I was fetching tea.” She averted her gaze to the stove. “Aunt Opal made a kettle. It may still be warm. It’s only beetroot tea, but would you like some too?”
“Yes, please.” He couldn’t stop watching her as she pulled a tray from a cabinet and set it on the table. For over a year, he’d wanted to converse with her, open and free. His collaboration had stood in the way. Then his resistance work. But now that she was involved...
“No sugar, of course, but would you like milk?” She held up a little jug without facing him. “One of the advantages of visiting a dairy farm.”
“No, thank you. In the Netherlands, we call tea with milkkinder thee—children’s tea.”
Ivy flashed a little smile over her shoulder. “With only half a pint of milk rationed each day, we islanders are finally growing up.”
Gerrit chuckled and ripped his gaze back to the window. He had a decision to make, one that affected the lovely young woman assembling cups and saucers.
China clinked. “Does your hand still hurt? From the sprain?”
“Hmm?” Gerrit’s left hand opened and closed. Ached. “It always hurts a bit. I broke it when I was a boy.”
“You mentioned that. How did it happen? Climbing trees? Wrestling Bernardus?” A smile pushed up her round cheeks as she fetched the teakettle.
Why was he avoiding her company? Avoiding what he’d longed for? Gerrit turned, leaned back against the sink, and stretched the once-mangled fingers. “A boy lived in my neighborhood. He was afew years younger than I, the son of a servant from the East Indies, quite dark-skinned. The other boys were teasing him, pushing him around, hitting him.”
