The Sound of Light, page 14
Maybe she could love him if he met his potential.
Old grief swamped him. Far’s goals for Henrik had always lain two inches out of reach. As a boy, he’d stretched and always fallen short. As a young man, his only goals involved Olympic gold and personal pleasure. He’d failed to get gold, and pleasure never pleased for long.
Now what did he want? If he survived?
Far had wanted Henrik to succeed in business, politics, sports, and society, no matter the cost in friendships or character.
Henrik wanted something better. He wanted to use his leadership skills for good, with kindness at the forefront. He wanted to fill his circle of influence with people like the Thorups and Laila and Else.
He wanted his character and dreams and standards to rise to a different level. The potential laid out by his heavenly Father, not his earthly one.
Someone shook Henrik’s shoulder. Lars Koppel looked down at him in the dim light and pointed to his wristwatch.
Henrik pushed up to sitting. All around, men roused themselves and got ready.
Over the past week, the crew had gradually collected equipment in the storeroom for the raid.
Henrik grabbed a black jacket, made sure it was his—they all looked alike—and put it on.
After he pulled on his black gloves, he passed out black balaclavas knit by Janne Thorup, who never questioned why Henrik needed eight.
Each man stuffed pockets with rags, rope, and a lighter, and each looped a whistle around his neck, to abort the raid if necessary.
Henrik extracted a fake gun from a crate and tucked it into his waistband. Frandsen had sawn off lengths of steel pipe and soldered shorter pieces to one end. It would feel like a gun if jabbed in a man’s ribs and might even look like a pistol in the dark.
Koppel beckoned the crew together. “Speak only if necessary, and disguise your voice.” His words barely reached Henrik’s ears.
Then the crew chief slipped outside alone. In a minute, he returned and pointed to Hyllested. The man left with wire cutters. He would cut a hole in the fence down by the harbor to make it look as if outsiders had broken in—a hole the crew would use to escape. Then Hyllested would stand watch along the escape route.
Koppel gave Henrik and the other five men a significant look. They’d go in pairs to round up the two night guards, the most dangerous part of the raid.
The men picked up metal gasoline cans and headed into the night.
Even though Henrik didn’t have his full strength back, he’d managed to row the Øresund. He could sprint for safety if necessary.
He nodded to Gunnar Skov—he’d insisted on keeping the loose cannon by his side—and they took off running, low and quiet, down to the water, then along the waterfront, passing the bows of ships under construction.
His senses on edge, Henrik scanned between the ships, behind him, ahead. When he reached the last ship, he stopped and peeked down the rails for the crane, down the row of buildings, searching for movement in the darkness, sound in the stillness.
Crouched low, he edged across to the buildings. He pressed back against a shed, Skov beside him. They set down their gas cans, and Skov pulled out his fake pistol.
Henrik’s breath steamed the inside of his balaclava. Where were those guards? The crew had to capture them before they could start the sabotage.
Hugging the wall, Henrik crept forward and peeked around the side of the building. No one there, so he dashed to the next shed.
There—a golden spark in the night, and a glow silhouetted a man leaning against the next building. A Danish guard smoking a cigarette.
Henrik tapped Skov’s arm and pointed out their target.
The cigarette glow blinked in and out—the guard had his back to them.
Henrik inched forward, rolling heel to toe, holding his breath.
About six feet from the guard, Henrik held up his hand and raised one finger, two fingers, three.
He charged forward, slapped his hand over the man’s mouth, and twisted the man’s arm behind his back.
Skov darted in front and jammed his fake pistol into the guard’s gut. “One sound and you’re dead,” he said in a deep growl.
The guard let out a gulping whimper and nodded against the pressure of Henrik’s hand. Skov lifted a rag, and as soon as Henrik released the man’s mouth, Skov gagged him and Henrik yanked the guard’s other arm behind his back.
After Skov tied the gag, he bound the man’s wrists with rope.
With the man’s arm in his grip, Henrik grabbed the guard’s machine pistol, which was propped against the wall. He pointed the pistol to the guard’s side and urged him toward the sterns of the ships.
The guard whimpered again.
“Quiet,” Skov growled. “He’ll shoot.”
“Ja.” Henrik would knock the fellow out cold rather than shoot, but he’d shoot if necessary. He sympathized with Danes who feared working for the resistance, but he felt no sympathy for Danes who worked against the resistance.
They hustled their prisoner to the hammerhead crane, where Koppel waited. Henrik shoved the guard down to sitting, and Koppel tied him to the crane.
Henrik handed Koppel the machine pistol. He’d use it to guard the prisoners, then hide it in the carpenter shop. Somehow they’d sneak it out to a resistance group.
A scuffle sounded a hundred feet away. A shout, cut off halfway. The second guard was putting up a fight, and Koppel ran off to help.
Henrik motioned to Skov. They ran back toward the waterline, retrieved their gas cans, and split up to their assigned ships.
Henrik’s was the second ship over, scheduled to launch in two days. If he had his way, it never would.
Near the bow, Henrik wrapped a rag around the base of the scaffolding, and he poured gasoline down the post, drenching wood and rag.
Eyes wide in the darkness, he picked his way through the scaffolding and repeated the process at another spot.
If all worked according to plan, fires would cause the scaffolding to collapse, and the ship would topple, damaging the adjacent ship as well.
Henrik hurried to a point amidships. He used a greater quantity of gasoline, and the fumes made his eyes water.
He worked his way through the scaffolding, straining his ears. No shouts. No whistles. Only muffled footsteps and dribbling liquid.
Near the stern, Henrik poured out the last of his gasoline.
He ran to where Koppel guarded the two Danish traitors, one who slumped forward, probably unconscious. Henrik left his gas can with Koppel.
Skov ran up, dropped off his can, then ran toward his ship.
What was he doing? Henrik chased after him. “Where are you going?”
Skov slowed, and his eyes shone pale in the sliver of moonlight. “Let’s start our fires and get out of here.”
Henrik grabbed Skov’s arm. “Not without the others. Follow the plan.”
“Hey.” Skov shook his arm but failed to break Henrik’s grip. “The longer we wait, the more likely someone sounds the alarm.”
“The fires will raise the alarm. We must all start at the same time so we all can escape.”
“Let me go.”
“No.” Henrik ground out the word. “Unless you want Koppel to try out that machine pistol, you’d better listen.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Koppel’s voice shot from behind. “Obey, or you’ll never work with us again.”
Skov’s arm went limp in Henrik’s grip. “Yes, sir.”
Henrik exchanged a look with Koppel. Even in the dark, even with only their eyes visible, they communicated. Skov would never work with them again.
Tin clunked behind them as more gas cans joined the others.
Koppel motioned the six men forward. He’d return the gas cans to the equipment shed, hide the machine pistols, and make sure everyone escaped.
Henrik ran back to his assigned ship and pulled out his cigarette lighter. The fumes and the white rag led him to the spot at the stern. He lit the rag. The flames were shockingly bright.
“Come on,” he muttered. The rag burned, but the wood didn’t catch. He pressed the lighter to the gasoline-soaked wood until flames licked up.
Then he worked his way onward. The firelight destroyed his night vision but illuminated his path.
Henrik set the next rag on fire and held flame to wood until the heat pushed him back.
Sweat built on his nose and lips, and the urge to remove his balaclava grew. As he made his way toward the bow, light bloomed around him and crackles shattered the silence.
He had to hurry. Not only would the alarm be raised but he could get trapped when the scaffolding collapsed.
At the amidships position, he took the most care, pressing the flame along two sides of the post. The flames and the heat stretched higher and higher.
Stifling a groan, Henrik broke away and picked his way forward.
A wail rose in the distance. A fire alarm.
Henrik grimaced. Time was running out. Motion caught his eye toward the harbor, and he hunched low.
A man—Skov!—running toward the exit. He couldn’t possibly have finished yet.
Henrik shook his head, found the next rag, and set it afire. When the flames took hold, he went to the last location and set his final fire.
The sirens whined, louder and louder, and Henrik stumbled out of the scaffolding and sprinted along the waterline behind the four other men.
Koppel stood by the shed closest to the harbor, and he motioned for the men to hurry.
But Henrik slowed his pace. Fires danced between the ships, low and weak, not the raging conflagration he’d imagined. But if they caused even some damage, delayed construction even somewhat, they’d done a worthwhile deed.
As Else would say, they’d yelped.
Henrik ran faster, and Koppel fell in behind him.
The men climbed through a hole in the cyclone fencing. Henrik gestured for Koppel to precede him. Koppel squirmed through and disappeared into the dark.
Henrik poked his foot through the hole—which wasn’t terribly big. He bent over, made himself as small as possible, climbed through—and stuck.
His jacket snagged on the wire, between his shoulder blades. He tried to reach it. Couldn’t.
Shouts rose from the shipyard, stomping feet.
His breath came fast, and he wiggled his jacket off his shoulders. He’d have to leave it behind—if he could get his arms free.
No! Hemming Andersen’s name was printed inside the jacket. Not only would he be arrested but the police would know the sabotage had been conducted by shipyard workers. How many would be arrested?
If he could remove the jacket, he could free it. But no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t get his arms out.
The shouts grew louder. Closer.
Henrik panted. His heart beat wild.
With a giant heave, he lunged forward. Fabric ripped, and Henrik tumbled to the ground.
Free.
He scrambled to his feet and ran for all he was worth.
26
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 1943
Across the lab, Kaj Knudsen stomped around, grabbed notebooks, and stuffed them into his briefcase.
Else frowned. What was wrong? Knudsen was such a happy fellow—although not recently. And after lunch, Mortensen had mocked Knudsen’s latest theory.
She went to Knudsen. “Going home early?”
“And never coming back.”
“What? You don’t mean it.”
Knudsen aimed his big-eyed gaze around the lab. “If it were like this all the time, I’d stay.”
Like this? Ah, Mortensen was absent. “He can be trying.”
“Trying?” Knudsen flung out one arm. “He berates my work at every turn. I was top in my class—top!—and he treats me like an imbecile. I’ll never earn my PhD in his lab, so I might as well—I’d rather teach pimple-faced boys at a Latin school than this.”
On top of the lab bench, Else’s fingers curled up. “Please don’t leave. You’re the best graduate student I’ve seen.”
“You aren’t in charge. He is.”
First, Sigurd Mortensen had driven away Norup, and now he was driving away Knudsen. No more. Else leaned closer. “Please don’t leave. Let me—let me talk to some people.”
Knudsen swatted away her offer. “Mortensen doesn’t listen to you. He’s determined to ruin your career too. He can’t stand having anyone in his lab as talented as he is.”
Else sucked in a breath. She’d entertained that thought and dismissed it as arrogance. But Knudsen saw it too. Mortensen had no problem with Gebhardt, who was bright and competent, but not outstanding like Knudsen. And Else offended him further by being a woman.
“Please give it another few days,” Else said.
Knudsen’s lips pressed together. Then he gave a rough nod. “Only for you.”
Else marched out of the lab. She’d arrived at the sharp edge of the prism. Speaking up for herself was difficult, but speaking up for others was another matter, and courage flared in brilliant color.
Wolff was at a symposium today, so Else went straight to the director’s office. She greeted Miss Schultz. “Is Dr. Bohr in?”
“Someone is meeting with him, but he shouldn’t be long.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Excuse me. I need to run these to Miss Bruun.” With folders in her arms, Miss Schultz left the office.
Else took a seat next to the door to Bohr’s personal office. Bohr’s voice filtered through. Else couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he sounded concerned.
Then a voice she knew all too well—Mortensen, loud and strident. “I shouldn’t have to put up with her incompetence. She holds back the work in my lab.”
She? Else’s breath soured in her mouth. Else was the only woman in Mortensen’s lab.
Bohr spoke in soothing tones.
“Yes,” Mortensen said. “But she hasn’t contributed one thing of value to my work. Not one.”
Else’s nails dug into her palms. Not one? How about solving the problem that had plagued Mortensen, the solution that formed the centerpiece of an excellent article?
“She’s insubordinate and lazy,” Mortensen said. “She orders my graduate students to do her work. She’s dead weight and she has to go.”
Light shattered inside. He’d kicked her one too many times, kicked too many people, and she stood and flung open the door. “This must stop.” She heard Hemming’s strength in his words on her lips.
Niels Bohr stared at her from the chair behind his desk.
Mortensen spun to her. His eyebrows hopped up, then his gaze hardened. “Eavesdropping and interrupting? How unprofessional.”
Part of her wanted to shrink back and flee. Part of her wanted to explode. Instead, she stepped forward to address the Nobel Laureate. “Excuse me, Dr. Bohr. I came to your office to address a situation with a graduate student who has been mistreated in our lab, one of several physicists who have endured insults and mockery.”
“Ridiculous,” Mortensen said. “See what I mean? She’s lazy and can’t handle criticism.”
Bohr’s dark-eyed gaze flitted between Else and Mortensen.
Else drew in air to cool her heated lungs. “As you can see, I’ve also been insulted and mocked.”
“I’m only telling the truth.” Mortensen’s voice twisted in disdain.
Else wrapped her hand around the wooden dog in her pocket. “There is a kernel of truth in what he said. I have delegated tasks.”
“I told you.”
“Tasks that belonged to others in the first place.” Else kept her gaze and her voice level. “For months, Mortensen ordered me to do his typing and dictation, which is Mrs. Iversen’s job. He also ordered me to run errands and clean equipment, which have been tasks of graduate students since time immemorial.”
Bohr scooted his chair back, and he shifted a befuddled gaze to Mortensen. “You should settle this problem between you.”
“I’ve tried.” Else spread her hands wide. “Three months ago, Mrs. Iversen and I informed him that she would perform secretarial duties, the graduate students would perform their duties, and I would perform the duties of a postdoctoral physicist. Mortensen agreed. Wolff is our witness.”
“But she doesn’t do her duties.” Mortensen’s voice rose. Rather unprofessional if Else had her say-so.
With effort, she relaxed her mouth. “Have any other physicists complained of my work?”
“What does that matter?” Mortensen said. “It’s what she’s doing now that matters. And now she’s lazy and conniving. See what she’s doing? She wants you to kick me out. She wants my spot.”
“I want no such thing.”
“Prove it. Prove you don’t want it.”
Else fought the temptation to roll her eyes. “Every scientist knows it’s impossible to prove a negative.”
“That’s enough.” Bohr bolted to his feet. “Both of you—please leave. Settle this like adults. I won’t have a combative situation in the institute.”
Mortensen dipped a bow to Else and opened the door. “After you.”
Else gave Bohr one last pleading look, then left his office.
The door shut behind her. “Goodbye, Miss Jensen. It was nice working with you,” Mortensen said with triumph in his voice, and he departed.
Else’s chest constricted. Bohr couldn’t have a combative situation. One of them would have to leave. Mortensen had seniority and authority.
He’d won. Knudsen would leave and Else would be forced out.
She covered her face with her hands. What had she done?
At dinner, Else barely managed to smile at Fru Riber’s funny stories and to avoid Hemming’s penetrating gaze.
If only Laila hadn’t been working late with the newspaper, as she often did now that she worked for them full-time. She’d divert attention from Else. Then again, she’d pry. Else couldn’t bear it.
Fru Riber spread butter on the last bit of her rye bread. “Did you hear about the German seaplane that crashed in the canal today?”
