“I know a lot.” Gerrit frowned in a serious manner, but with a glint in his eyes. “I saw a film once.”
Ivy laughed and nudged him with her shoulder, and Charlie and Uncle Arthur joined in the laughter.
At times like this, with Gerrit grinning down at her, surrounded by friends and family, Ivy could almost forget the war.
Almost.
A swastika armband circled Gerrit’s brown uniform sleeve. Ivy’s stomach protested the thinness of lunch. And Gerrit and Charlie were drawing and delivering maps as quickly as they could.
Yet moments of beauty were meant to be savored, and Ivy filled up at the green-blue font of Gerrit’s gaze.
Everything she’d found admirable in him from the start was true, and everything she’d found despicable was false. Thelma Galais had been right about him, and a pang of grief for her precious friend brought up a paradoxical smile. How Thelma would rejoice to see Ivy falling for Gerrit.
From what Ivy could see, he was falling for her too.
Uncle Arthur led the cow to the barn door. “Bring in the next girl, Benny.”
Using his crutch—and his anglicized name—Bernardus hauled himself up to standing. His left trouser leg hung loosely, and Aunt Opal had stuffed rags in the cavity inside his left shoe, a wooden-soled pair Uncle Arthur had bought with his own ration book.
Bernardus lost his balance and flung out one arm to right himself.
Ivy reached for him, then clamped her hands in the small of her back. He was doing well, and his stubbornness aided his recovery.
Everyone followed Uncle Arthur and Bernardus out of the barn, and whilst the men trailed into the pasture, Ivy fetched her sketch book, pencil, and a blanket from her bicycle.
The rain of the past few days had departed, and the rinsed-clean landscape called to her. Ivy spread her blanket under a tree and sat with her legs folded to one side and her green coat fanned over her legs for warmth.
Her pencil swept over the paper—the granite blocks of the barn, two cows, Uncle Arthur and Charlie, but not Bernardus or Gerrit.
Since Demyan’s death, she no longer gave her sketches to escapees. Her stomach clenched, but her art hadn’t caused his capture or execution, and she brushed away the guilt.
At least she now had more time to care for escapees, more time to draw, and more time to visit family. If only that extra time hadn’t arisen because the medical practice was ailing.
Ivy brushed away even more guilt. Thanks to Fern’s well-designed routes and Charlie’s kitchen timer and Aunt Ruby’s realistic timetables and Ivy’s dedication, she had improved in punctuality. Fern alone bore the blame for the recent decline in the practice.
Heaviness pressed on Ivy’s chest. Fern had barely spoken to Ivy in the past month, save to announce when she deposited her wages in the family bank account, as if those wages atoned for adultery.
What would become of her sister? Someday the Allies would win, and Bill would come home with Billy and Freddy, now ten years old.
Footsteps rustled through the grass, and Gerrit approached, smiling at her.
The heaviness melted away, and she smiled back. How hypocritical for Ivy to be falling in love with a man in a German uniform whilst she reprimanded Fern for doing the same. Yet there was no comparison.
Gerrit sat to her right and rested his elbows on his bent knees. “What are you drawing?”
She showed him, and his warmth radiated to her. Here, surrounded by the farm’s granite walls and hedgerows, she could lower her own walls.
“Very nice.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Can you draw me?”
Her cheeks warmed, and she added pencil strokes to the barn. If Gerrit only knew how many sketches she’d drawn of him. Then she chuckled. “I never took you to be vain.”
He returned the chuckle. “That is one thing I’ve never been accused of. No, I’m simply being selfish.”
“Selfish?” She sketched in more height to Charlie’s figure until he matched Uncle Arthur. “I would never accuse you of selfishness. Not the man who sent me reams of paper.” Charlie had finally confessed.
Silence beside her, and Gerrit fiddled with his fingers. “This request is selfish. To draw me, you’d need to look at me.”
How could she look at him? How could she bear up under the magnitude of his gaze? Yet how could she turn away so sweet a gift?
