The Sound of Light, page 18
Mortensen’s eyes darkened, but Else kept her sweetest smile in place.
“How thoughtful, Jensen,” Bohr said.
“Yes, very thoughtful,” Wolff said. “Isn’t she, Mortensen?”
Mortensen’s cheeks pitted, he glanced away, and he gave one sharp nod.
Bohr pushed back his chair with a satisfied expression. “We’ll all benefit from these changes, and the institute will benefit from a more peaceful atmosphere.”
When he stood, everyone else did too. But Wolff motioned for Else to remain.
After the door shut, she released the fullness of her smile. “Thank you. I promise you won’t have any prob—”
“I know. You’re a hard worker with a keen mind.”
The touch of a frown on his craggy face let some of the helium out of her smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ve seen a lot of promise in you, but something was lacking.”
“Oh.” Else chewed on her lower lip.
Wolff crossed his thin arms. “You lacked the backbone to succeed in a competitive field, especially as a woman. That’s why we put you in Mortensen’s lab—as a test.”
“A test?”
“In his lab, you’d either find a backbone or fail. Well, you found your backbone. I saw it when you and Mrs. Iversen confronted him, and Bohr saw it when you stood up for yourself and for Knudsen. And you did it without sacrificing the congeniality we all enjoy.”
That backbone stretched longer and higher. She’d done it. She’d actually done it.
“Time to celebrate.” Kaj Knudsen bounded down Blegdamsvej.
Else put a skip in her step to keep up with Knudsen, Gebhardt, and Rask as they headed to a nice restaurant for lunch. Her feet wanted to dance, her voice wanted to sing, and her heart couldn’t wait to tell Hemming.
The morning rain and the noon air raid siren test had faded from the sky, and Else drank in fragrant air.
“Too bad you have to stay in Mortensen’s lab,” Knudsen said to Gebhardt.
The wind kicked up, and Gebhardt grasped his homburg. “Nein. I don’t mind him.”
“Of course not.” A sardonic smile formed on Arne Rask’s narrow face. “He wouldn’t dare cross you. You might send the Gestapo after him.”
A shadow fell over Gebhardt’s light eyes. “I would not.”
Rask elbowed the German physicist. “Haven’t you learned? We Danes love to josh and joke.”
Gebhardt’s mouth twitched, but the shadow remained.
Else averted her gaze toward the shops along the street. Gebhardt might have learned, but he also must have heard the jab behind the joke.
“How about you, Rask?” Knudsen led the way across Nørrebrogade. “I’m sorry you have to go to Mortensen’s lab.”
Rask tipped his hat at an elderly couple crossing in the other direction. “Our fathers are old friends. We get along. Besides, I want experience on the cyclotron for my own research, so this is—”
A loud boom in the distance.
The ground shuddered.
Else stopped. “What was that?”
Knudsen looked up, holding his hat. “I don’t see bombers.”
A grayish cloud puffed up above the roofline. Not far ahead of them.
Else gasped. Something—something big had exploded.
“Come on!” Rask took off running toward the explosion, and Knudsen and Gebhardt followed.
Was it wise to run toward an explosion? But Else ran after them, wanting to stay together and to learn what had happened. She could always turn back.
Up and down the street, people darted outside in alarm. They walked toward the noise, jogged, ran. Questions flew.
Else’s breath came hard. She stayed close to the other physicists and scanned the crowd for danger, for gray-green German uniforms or black Schalburg Corps uniforms.
The gray cloud settled lower, and no further explosions rent the air.
Else’s feet and lungs ached. She hadn’t run so far in years, but she kept up with her colleagues. Glass crunched under her shoes. Jagged glass edged window frames along the street.
Else’s heart seized. What had exploded? And why?
Their path jogged, and in another block, the crowd slowed and spread out and merged with the crowd that had formed around skeletal steel ruins.
The ruins of the Forum, and Else covered her mouth. The Forum was the largest exhibition hall in Scandinavia, seating over ten thousand. The glass dome had disappeared, cinder-block walls lay in rubble, and bony fingers of steel jutted up through the dust into the sky.
Murmurs flowed through the crowd . . . “Holger Danske.”
“Holger Danske?” Else said. “That’s a resistance group.”
“But why?” a middle-aged woman asked in a rough voice.
“Haven’t you heard?” a man in a blue suit said. “The Germans were turning it into military barracks. Tomorrow morning, thousands of soldiers were supposed to move in.”
“That’s horrible,” the woman said. “Bad enough they’re here, but to live in our Forum?”
“Better to blow it up,” a young man said.
“Ja, ja,” flowed through the crowd, echoed by Knudsen, by Rask.
Else’s insides squirmed. “I hope no one was hurt.”
“Not a soul,” an older man said. “It’s lunchtime. They waited until the workers had left.”
Murmurs of approval swept the crowd, and Else smiled in relief.
Rask gave Gebhardt a pointed look. “Unlike the Nazis, we Danes are civilized.”
Gebhardt’s look mirrored Rask’s. “Civilized jokesters.”
Else held her breath. Would the men come to blows?
Arne Rask tipped back his head and sang, “Der er et yndigt land.”
“There Is a Lovely Land,” the Danish national anthem, flowed through the crowd, and Else joined in, proud of the Danish people for resisting in a humane way.
Hemming would approve, he who resisted in a very humane way, and tears filled her eyes as she sang.
31
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1943
Although Henrik had crafted every part of today’s plan, now he had nothing to do.
He hauled a crate to the timber shed and passed men who had the appearance of working without actually doing so. Biding time.
Up in Frederik Ahlefeldt’s office, the shop steward was demanding Far remove the sabotage guards, who had increased in number since the sabotage raid.
As Anker, Henrik had sent that steward.
He readjusted his hands on the rough wooden crate. Tension bristled in the air, contrasting with the baby blue skies and cotton ball clouds.
An armed guard eyed him, and Henrik ignored him with his best dull-eyed look. What would the guards do when the shop steward blew his whistle and the workers walked out? And they would indeed walk out.
In ordinary times, Far wasn’t known for meeting labor demands. With Far in the resistance, he might favor a strike. The repairs from the raid had taken an astonishingly long time, and a strike would further delay production.
Henrik set down his crate, loaded a handcart with lumber, and pushed it back the way he’d come.
The past month, strikes and riots had spread in the provinces, from Odense to Aalborg to Esbjerg. It was time to bring strikes to Copenhagen.
Sabotage was rising and was also rising in the public esteem. Instead of protesting the previous day’s destruction of the Forum, most people cheered it.
Over dinner, Else’s eyes had glowed as she reported the outpouring of patriotism, although her words sounded subdued, probably in deference to Fru Riber’s abhorrence of destruction and lawbreaking.
Henrik grinned as he rolled the handcart over the rails for the crane. Only a few more days until he could see Else at Lyd-af-Lys, could hold her and kiss her. But he longed most to exchange thoughts and stories without hindrance.
At the boardinghouse, his role of Hemming became more difficult each day, and Else seemed to struggle to pretend nothing had changed.
Henrik pushed the cart to where Koppel and his crew actively did nothing.
The shipyard noise shifted. Engines shut down and tools clanked to the ground, the shift rippling away from the office building. The whistle must have been blown.
Koppel motioned to the exit. “Let’s go.”
The crew followed Koppel, and Henrik brought up the rear. As one, workers marched toward the main gate, the only sound the thud of work boots on pavement.
As he moved with the silent mass of men, Henrik stayed alert for trouble.
At the main gate, he found it.
Flanking the gate stood four guards, including the man Henrik and Skov had captured, and they pointed machine pistols at the workers.
“You can’t leave,” a guard yelled.
Hoots and hollers and jostling spread through the crowd.
Lars Koppel pushed his way forward. He’d be the voice of reason, but only if he were heard.
“Silence!” Henrik yelled. “Let Koppel speak.”
Men stared at him and fell silent.
“Excuse me, boys.” Koppel’s voice carried both strength and understanding. “Your job is to prevent sabotage. We aren’t committing sabotage. We’re going on strike, which is legal.”
A guard thrust his pistol toward Koppel. “It shouldn’t be.”
“But it is.” Koppel raised his hands in a calming manner. “What are you going to do, son? Shoot me? Shoot the others? How many will you kill before you’re overpowered?”
A rumble ran through the crowd, and Henrik joined in with enough menace to make the guards see they would indeed be overpowered.
The two guards on Henrik’s side of the gate glanced at each other with stark eyes, and two guns drifted lower.
“That’s the way, boys,” Koppel said. “That’s the smart thing to do.”
Koppel edged forward, and the workers followed him through the gate. Most ignored the guards, but some glared at them.
Henrik averted his gaze as he did whenever he saw the man he’d captured, in case something triggered the man’s memory.
A few feet ahead of Henrik, Gunnar Skov worked his way over to that same guard. Shoved him. “Someday we’ll kick out the Germans, wait and see. And we’ll remember your names. You’ll pay.”
Heat filled Henrik’s chest like a bellows. What was Skov thinking? He could be recognized. Shot.
And if Henrik intervened, the chance of recognition exploded.
Someone else needed to help.
Frantically, he searched the crowd. He needed two men—strong, authoritative, who hadn’t been on the raid. There! “Eriksen! Blom! Stop Skov.”
Eriksen was already grabbing Skov’s arm, Blom elbowed forward and grabbed the other, and they manhandled the hothead through the gate.
Outside, the crowd dispersed. A safe distance from the gate, Eriksen and Blom released Skov, but Henrik grabbed his sinewy arm and hauled him away, ignoring his cussing protests.
“What were you thinking?” Henrik stepped right into Skov’s face. “Koppel got them to back down, and you—you antagonized them.”
“They’re traitors.” Skov’s eyes burned.
“What if he’d recognized you?” A growl entered Henrik’s voice. “Your build, your walk?”
“Ah, you’re worrying for nothing.” He shook his arm.
Henrik clamped down. “You could have gotten a lot of men shot. You could have gotten us arrested. You’re an idiot. A stupid idiot. A sorry excuse of a man. A waste of life—”
His father’s words. In Henrik’s mouth.
He gasped and dropped Skov’s arm. What had he done? He spun and strode away. “Go home, Skov. Go home.”
Henrik could barely see the path. He’d been harsh. Insulting. Everything he hated in his father.
The smallest step into leadership, and this was what he’d become?
He groaned and wiped at his mouth.
If he couldn’t be trusted with leadership, how could he be trusted with Else’s heart?
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 1943
Sunday couldn’t come soon enough. Else bicycled down the street in the light rain. A week had passed without Mortensen asking for copies, without an excuse to visit the mimeograph room.
Finally Mrs. Iversen had contacted her. Why had Mortensen waited until the Saturday half day? Between the time it took to print six hundred copies of Frit Danmark and the time to deliver, she wouldn’t arrive in Søllerød until late afternoon.
But nothing would keep her away this weekend. For the first part of the week, she’d anticipated sweet togetherness. Since Wednesday, she’d experienced a burning need to find out what was wrong with Hemming.
After a quick scan of the street, Else pulled her bike into the lobby of the building. Since the strike began, Hemming had been quieter than usual, and he sometimes gave Else a pained look. Not pained at her, but as if he hurt for her.
She shoved down her raincoat hood and climbed the stairs to the dentist’s office. Her briefcase weighed down her shoulder and Hemming weighed down her mind.
In the dentist’s office, two men sat in the waiting room. Else approached the receptionist. “Good afternoon. I fell off my bicycle and chipped my tooth. May I see the dentist?”
The receptionist gave her a stiff smile. “I’m sorry. The dentist is too busy to see you. These two gentlemen arrived before you.”
What? That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. That was what she was supposed to say if it wasn’t safe to make the drop.
Else’s cheeks tingled as the blood drained away.
It wasn’t safe.
The receptionist poised her pencil over the appointment book. “Shall we schedule an appointment next week?”
“Yes.” Else’s voice choked out. She gave a false name, but the name and date didn’t matter because she would never return, and the receptionist knew it too.
Else’s mind fumbled over the protocol she’d learned for this situation. Take the papers home. Hide them. Tell Laila. Laila would tell the leaders. They’d arrange a new drop site. And no matter what—don’t get caught.
The receptionist twitched her head to one side, like a tic. She gave Else a hard gaze and one more tic. To her left.
The left? Did she mean to indicate the gentleman on the left?
Else took the appointment card, turned for the door, and swept her gaze over the waiting room with a nonchalant air.
To the right sat an elderly man. To the left, a pudgy, middle-aged man in a gray coat.
Else opened the door and trotted down the stairs. Was the man Gestapo? Or a Danish stikker—an informer?
She yanked up her hood, shoved her bike outside, and mounted it. No time to strap her briefcase to the rack, so she slung it across her back and pedaled away.
In half a block, she slanted her path across the street to justify looking behind her.
The man in gray swung his leg over a bike, his gaze on Else. He glanced away.
“Oh no.” Else gripped the handlebars hard. He was following her. Why else would he leave without keeping his appointment?
Pretending not to notice him, she pedaled away. Her breath came in frenetic little bursts.
What to do?
At the intersection, her bike longed to turn right toward the safety of home—but she couldn’t lead a stikker to her house. To her identity, to Laila, to Hemming.
Somehow she had to shake him without looking as if she were trying to shake him.
Else turned left, and her gaze strained around the edge of her hood. The stikker turned left too.
She forced her breath steady. Appearing unconcerned was the best defense.
At least she had youth on her side, and she pedaled faster. But not guilty-fast.
A map of Copenhagen flew through her mind. Where might she be able to lose him?
Her briefcase swung off her back and around to her side, throwing off her balance. Else gasped, fought her wobbling tires on the damp pavement, and elbowed her briefcase back in place.
What was she thinking, trying to be sneaky and clandestine? As a child, she’d never been able to fool her brothers or lie to her parents.
Moisture tickled her eyes. Lord, help me think straight. Help me escape.
Crowded streets would be good. Busy intersections. Traffic lights.
The Trianglen! Only a few blocks away, the triangle-shaped roundabout had half a dozen streets poking out.
Else turned onto Østerbrogade and glanced over her shoulder. Herre Gray lagged a block behind.
In the heavier traffic, Else weaved among the bicycles, a bit faster than the others.
Up ahead, the traffic light before the Trianglen turned red. Else pedaled hard and zipped through the intersection. Her bike wheels kicked up water and dampened her stockings. Now was her chance.
She worked her way into traffic, made a sharp turn around the triangle, another onto Øster Allé, then swerved into the Fælledparken, onto the wooded path that ran behind the Institute for Theoretical Physics.
Under the trees, in the shadow of the beloved building, her breath came easier, but she didn’t ease up her pace.
She mapped a long and circuitous path home.
A few more glances behind her. Perhaps she’d lost him. But did he think her innocent or suspicious? Would he remember her face?
A tremble ran up her arms. What had she gotten herself into?
32
THE ØRESUND
SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 1943
On the moonless night, the only light on the Øresund came from the lights of Sweden reflecting off patchy clouds. With each stroke of Henrik’s oars back to Vedbæk, that light faded.
Being active felt good. Only a few days on strike, and he was bored. He’d run errands and helped Fru Riber prepare for the return of the university students—all but Ib Malmstrøm.
Henrik’s helpfulness eased the landlady’s annoyance at the communists for deluding nice young men like Ib into dying for their cause—and at the shipyard strike, instigated by radicals and communists, she insisted.
