“A woman,” Bauer said. “A Jerseywoman was convicted of throwing manure on German soldiers.”
A boisterous laugh from Meyer. “At least it was on soldiers, not OT men.”
Laughter flowed around the table. The German soldiers, who had a general reputation in Jersey for “correct” behavior, despised the men from OT, who were known for brutality and drunken brawling.
Gerrit lowered his face so no one could see he hadn’t joined the laughter. Six months in prison for throwing manure? A typical sentence for infractions such as owning a wireless set, insulting a German soldier, or spreading news from the BBC.
If the Germans learned what Gerrit was doing, his sentence would be far worse. But with winter weather impeding both shipping to Saint-Malo and construction in Jersey, the delivery of Gerrit’s maps and diagrams had slowed.
The British agent had sent Charlie back with another parachute, certainly from the agent’s return to France, but no crystals for making ink.
When he ran out of ink, his work would end.
“Lebkuchen?” Hoffman passed Gerrit a tray of little brown biscuits which smelled of ginger and other spices.
“Thank you.” Gerrit took one and passed the tray.
Hoffman’s close-set blue eyes narrowed as he studied the biscuit in his hand. “My Greta makes the best Lebkuchen.”
Meyer hoisted his stein. “Next year you shall eat your Greta’s Lebkuchen at home—after German victory!”
Lackluster cheers erupted. Although the Allied offensive in Italy had slowed, the Soviets ground closer to the German border each day. German defeat—not victory—seemed inevitable.
Meyer thumped down his stein, and beer sloshed out. “Let the English come. We’re ready.”
Indeed, thirty-eight major strongpoints ringed the Channel Islands, and over four hundred thousand cubic meters of reinforced concrete had been poured. If the French coast bore similar fortifications, the Allied invasion would be bloody.
“I wonder how long we’ll stay here.” Bauer rolled his Lebkuchen in his wide hand. “Most of our workers have been sent to France, but I’d rather stay.”
“It’s safe, ja?” Hoffman chewed his biscuit. “In France, the terrorists are barbaric. They assassinate our men.”
Bauer nodded. “And the English bombers rarely come here.”
“Don’t be cowards.” Meyer’s nose shriveled. “I will go where the Führer sends me, die for the Führer if necessary.”
To disagree could be fatal, so Gerrit added his half-hearted, muttered agreement.
But he met Bauer’s concerned gaze across the table. Gerrit would rather stay in Jersey too.
He’d promised to return to Ivy if he were transferred to France, and she’d promised to wait for him. But leaving her would shred him up inside.
If he left Jersey, he’d have no way to pass diagrams to the Allies. Charlie was his only link to the British agent, and unless Gerrit was sent to the Saint-Malo area, Charlie wouldn’t be able to connect Gerrit directly with the agent to continue his work on the continent.
Bernardus knew other contacts in France, but he was confined to the Jouny farm. And how many of his original contacts had been arrested?
If Gerrit were sent to France, he would no longer be able to aid the resistance.
The ginger in the biscuit failed to subdue the nausea filling his stomach. How could he bear to leave?
chapter
30
St. Helier
Sunday, January 16, 1944
“Antipyrine!” Joan de Ferrers jabbed a finger at her book.
