The Sound of Light, page 1
Praise for Until Leaves Fall in Paris
“Sundin is a master at her craft, and avid readers will devour this in one sitting. With meticulous historical research and an eye for both mystery and romance, Sundin rises to the top of World War II fiction in this latest novel with crossover appeal.”
Library Journal, starred review
“Until Leaves Fall in Paris is a compelling exploration of the seemingly simple good things that end up requiring great sacrifice and having far-reaching impacts.”
Booklist, starred review
“Fast-paced and rich with historical detail, Sundin’s narrative captivates by leaning into the complexity of what it means to live by Christian principles in a morally compromised world. This potent synthesis of history, love, and faith will delight romance readers, religious and nonreligious alike.”
Publishers Weekly
“Sarah Sundin delivers another epic tale filled with danger, romance, and all the good feels! If you love WWII books, intrigue, danger, and romance, this book has it all. I cannot recommend it enough!”
Interviews & Reviews
“Hair-raising and shocking. The fiery determination to right what is wrong combined with the acts of personal selflessness strengthens this plot into a thrilling read.”
New York Journal of Books
“The prose is excellent, the plot appropriately thrilling, and our hero and heroine are perfect for each other.”
All About Romance
Praise for When Twilight Breaks
“Sundin’s novels set the gold standard for historical war romance, and When Twilight Breaks is arguably her most brilliant and important work to date.”
Booklist, starred review
“Sundin’s latest World War II tale positively crackles with tension.”
Library Journal, starred review
“Sundin combines suspense and romance to great effect. Inspirational fans who like high-octane action will enjoy this thrilling story.”
Publishers Weekly
“Sarah Sundin once again weaves a thrilling, thought-provoking tale that leaves the reader breathless.”
Interviews & Reviews
Books by Sarah Sundin
When Twilight Breaks
Until Leaves Fall in Paris
The Sound of Light
SUNRISE AT NORMANDY SERIES
The Sea Before Us
The Sky Above Us
The Land Beneath Us
WINGS OF GLORY SERIES
A Distant Melody
A Memory Between Us
Blue Skies Tomorrow
WINGS OF THE NIGHTINGALE SERIES
With Every Letter
On Distant Shores
In Perfect Time
WAVES OF FREEDOM SERIES
Through Waters Deep
Anchor in the Storm
When Tides Turn
© 2023 by Sarah Sundin
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3964-5
Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Published in association with Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Books by Sarah Sundin
Title Page
Copyright Page
1940
1
1943
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
A Sneak Peek of a Future Series
Author’s note
Acknowledgments
Pronunciation Guide and Glossary
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
TUESDAY, APRIL 9, 1940
The sun rose on the first day of another year in the wasted life of Baron Henrik Ahlefeldt.
Henrik stopped outside his family’s night-darkened home on Bredgade.
“Thirty. I’m thirty,” he murmured to Svend Østergaard, who was the kind of friend willing to endure Henrik’s crowd of dissolute aristocrats to celebrate his birthday, the kind of friend who understood what Henrik couldn’t voice.
By thirty he’d planned to have Olympic gold, a seat in parliament, and a wife as brilliant and sweet as his own dear mother, God rest her soul.
Instead his nostrils stung from the Danish tradition of tossing pepper at bachelors on their thirtieth birthdays.
“It isn’t too late, Henning,” Svend said. “I’ve never known anyone with so much—”
“Don’t say it.” Henrik raised one hand to block the hated word. “The only standard I’ve ever met is wasting my potential. And that standard I’ve surpassed most exceedingly.”
Svend loosed a sigh into the dawn chill. “You think you’re punishing your father, but you’re only punishing yourself.”
Henrik winced and restrained his fists. He’d known Svend since their first day at Latin school. As the only person in his life who spoke both honestly and kindly, Svend deserved to have his say.
A strange sound arose about a block over. A faint, rhythmic pounding. Like feet, lots of feet, marching in unison.
“What is—”
Pops rang out—sharp and cracking. Like fireworks. Or . . . gunfire?
Svend let out a strangled cry. “The Germans.”
Henrik’s eyes strained in the pale light. For months, Svend had ranted about how the Nazis would someday invade Norway to protect their shipping route for Swedish iron ore.
And tiny neutral Denmark stood in the way.
More shots.
“Come on!” Henrik ran toward the sound, toward Frederiksgade, which ran to Amalienborg Palace, home of King Christian X.
Svend ran beside him. “Our army . . .”
Curses filled Henrik’s head. Small and poorly equipped, the Danish Army didn’t stand a chance against the German Wehrmacht.
He rounded the corner onto Frederiksgade. A block ahead, men in uniform filled Amalienborg Square. Not the scarlet coats of the Royal Life Guards. German uniforms.
“Stop!” Svend grabbed Henrik’s arm. “We can’t help.”
Henrik shook off his friend and kept running. This was his country. His king.
“Henning! You’re one man.”
He skidded to a stop. One man. Unarmed. His heart and his shoulders slumped.
“I—I need to leave.” Svend looked ill, although he hadn’t had a drop to drink all night.
With a sigh, Henrik gestured back the way they’d come. “Let’s get you home.”
Svend strode away. “No. They’ll look for me there. I need to leave the country.”
“The—country?” Henrik jogged to catch up.
“You read those articles I wrote.”
Henrik hadn’t, but the titles had screamed of the evils of Nazi Germany.
Svend turned onto Bredgade. “That bag I asked you to keep? I need it.”
“But—but Birgitte—the children.”
“I’ll call Birgitte from your house. We knew this day would come. And right now I need you to row me to Sweden.”
Henrik gaped at his friend. Svend always made sense—except now. “Row?”
“It’s about ten miles across the Sound. You can row that far.”
“Yes, but—”
Svend spun to him and gripped Henrik’s arm, his eyes sapphire daggers. “You rowed for Olympic gold. You row for your own pleasure. Now I’m asking you—begging you—t
Something stirred in Henrik’s chest, something he hadn’t felt for ages. The desire to do a good and noble deed. A stirring not to be ignored.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1940
With each stroke of his oars on the way back from Sweden, Henrik mulled Svend’s proposal.
Under the stars, he dipped his oars into the water, shoved with his legs, and leaned into the layback. Svend was crazy. He thought too highly of Henrik.
He released the oars from the water and slid forward to the crouched position. What if Henrik did what Svend proposed?
His double scull, built wider and sturdier by Thorvald Thorup, allowed Henrik to row in the Øresund, the strait separating Denmark’s island of Zealand from the southern tip of Sweden.
His muscles felt warm and twitchy from the night’s row.
After seeing the German soldiers, Henrik and Svend had fetched Svend’s bag and driven north to Lyd-af-Lys, the Ahlefeldt seaside villa in Vedbæk.
All day, they’d flipped the radio dial between Denmark’s State Radio and the BBC as they reported on the German invasion of both Norway and Denmark.
Denmark had fallen in under two hours.
At six in the morning, King Christian had accepted the surrender terms. Germany would occupy Danish military facilities and control the press. But they’d kept Denmark’s king and parliament in place and even allowed the Army and Navy to remain on duty.
That evening, the Danish government asked the citizens to behave, obey the law, and treat the Germans correctly.
“Correctly.” Henrik yanked the oars. When he’d heard that announcement, he’d packed his own bag, determined to go to Sweden with Svend. How could he live in an occupied shell of a nation?
A house full of priceless possessions, and Henrik had taken only cash, some clothing, a shaving kit, and photos of his mother and sisters, his American fraternity brothers, and the 1936 Danish Olympic rowing team. And his mother’s Bible.
As they’d crossed the Øresund, Svend had developed his idea and had persuaded Henrik to return to Copenhagen to think it over. If he accepted Svend’s plan, he would stay in Denmark. If he didn’t, he’d row to Sweden another night.
A lifetime of rowing infused his stroke, refined by coaching and diligence, and fueled by his love for the resistance of water, which allowed him to speed over the waves.
In neutral Sweden, Svend planned to visit the British legation and offer his services to the Allies. With his connections in Danish government, military, and commerce, he could provide a great deal of intelligence. But his plan relied on Henrik.
Henrik and his scull, skimming across the Sound, carrying information and documents.
It was crazy. Dangerous. It’d disrupt his life. And yet . . .
His boat passed the tip of Nordhavn, leading into Copenhagen’s harbor. The Trekroner Fort in the center of the channel hadn’t stopped German ships the night before, but Henrik wasn’t taking any chances. A dark cap covered his fair hair, and a black overcoat blotted out the bulk of his frame.
He slowed his pace to silence his strokes. When he neared the breakwater extending from the fort, he folded himself low and let the boat glide past.
In a few minutes, he sat up and scanned for patrol boats.
Ahlefeldt Shipbuilding Company lay on the east side of the narrow harbor. Henrik would nap at the shipyard pier until his shift started. If he slept through his shift again, his father would rant. But Henrik had stopped living for Far’s approval at the age of fourteen and he’d stopped caring about Far’s opinion after Mor died.
He resumed rowing, slow and silent. Far would hate Svend’s idea, and a smile cracked Henrik’s chapped lips.
Then his smile drifted low. If rumors spread about an aristocrat rowing secrets to Sweden, it wouldn’t take long for them to arrest Henrik, well-known man-about-town and Olympic rower.
As empty as his life was, he didn’t want to lose it.
The boat glided toward the statue of Den Lille Havfrue.
Henrik planted his oars until the boat stopped. Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid sat on a rock with her bronze fins tucked beneath her, gazing wistfully to sea.
To gain what she wanted, she gave up her voice so she could have legs.
“What do I want?” Henrik asked as if the mermaid had the answer.
He already knew. He wanted to help someone other than himself for a change. Aid his country. But his voice would call attention to himself. His nobility stood in his way.
To have legs, he needed to sacrifice his voice.
To have mobility, he needed to sacrifice his nobility.
On the dark waters in the dark night before the wistful dark Havfrue, light flooded his mind. Baron Henrik Ahlefeldt had to disappear.
And in his place . . .
Henrik whispered his new identity. “The Havmand.”
2
COPENHAGEN
MONDAY, JANUARY 25, 1943
The light in the laboratory had a flat quality, but Dr. Elsebeth Jensen didn’t mind. Although indoor light lacked the brightness, the wildness of sunlight, it served its purpose. It illuminated.
At the Institute for Theoretical Physics in Copenhagen, the light illuminated Dr. Georg von Hevesy, a balding physical chemist in his fifties, a refugee from Hungary. Cages lined the walls, filled with rats, squeaking and skittering.
Else jotted down the quantity of phosphorus-32 Hevesy needed from the cyclotron. His research used radioactive indicators to trace chemical reactions in animals, research with exciting possibilities in medicine. She smiled at Hevesy. “We’ll bring the P-32 tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Jensen.” Hevesy spoke in English, the official language of the institute. “I do wish you were on my team.”
She’d never win the Nobel Prize continuing to serve as an assistant, so she tipped him a smile. “You already have Hilde Levi. Wouldn’t the others be jealous if you had two women on your team?”
The corners of his mustache bent up. “Ah yes. It’s only fair to spread the wealth.”
“It is.” High on a shelf sat two glass beakers full of brilliant orange liquid. The color of dreams dissolved, of dreams preserved for a brighter day.
Hevesy followed her gaze and winked at Else.
On that horrible day almost three years ago when the Nazis occupied Denmark, Hevesy had shown Else the beakers, full of aqua regia, a mixture of fuming hydrochloric acid and nitric acid.
At the bottom of each beaker, bubbles had covered corroding discs—Nobel medals belonging to Max von Laue and James Franck. If the Nazis learned Laue had smuggled gold out of Germany, he would have been arrested. And Franck was Jewish.
With Jewish blood himself, Hevesy had entrusted Else with his secret due to her blond Danish looks and her American passport.
Thank goodness, the Germans treated Denmark as a “model protectorate.” The Danish government protected its citizens from the harsh conditions and antisemitic laws seen in other occupied countries.
If the war ever ended and the Germans ever left Denmark, the scientists would precipitate out the Nobel gold and cast new medals.
Else closed her notebook, said goodbye to Hevesy, and left the lab. Time for her appointment with Niels Bohr.
Her fingers danced by her side in anticipation. She cherished the times when Bohr called her into his office to chat.
Three and a half years had passed since she’d arrived in Denmark, but she still thrilled to be at the institute founded by Dr. Niels Bohr himself. Niels Bohr, whose model of the atom had earned him the Nobel Prize. Niels Bohr, whose complementarity principle had inspired Else’s doctoral thesis.
In his office, the Nobel Laureate stood to greet Else, his smile electrifying his heavy-jowled face. Then he glanced over Else’s shoulder to the doorway. “Ah, Wolff.”
Dr. Jørgen Wolff stepped inside. “Good day, Bohr, Jensen.”
Else returned his greeting. One of her favorite physicists, Wolff had been at the institute since Bohr founded it in 1921. About the same age, both men had dark hair—although Bohr had received more salt and Wolff more pepper.
Bohr sat behind his desk under a painting of Danish physicist Hans Christian Ørsted from the early 1800s, while Wolff perched his lean frame on the corner of Bohr’s desk.
Else took a seat and fiddled with her lab coat. Wolff’s presence elevated the appointment from a chat to a meeting.
Bohr pointed his pipe at her. “We’d like to discuss your new position.”
Else’s breath swirled in her lungs in expectation. After years of serving as an assistant, would she finally be able to conduct her own research?
