The Sound of Light, page 20
“Oh, Laila.” Else rubbed her friend’s arm. “I won’t let—”
How could she make such a promise? “I—I’ll do everything I can to help you.” So would Hemming, but to say so would pave the path to questions she couldn’t answer.
“If I have to die, I’ll die fighting.” Laila lowered her hands and revealed terrified courage.
34
COPENHAGEN
MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 1943
The Langebro teemed with bicycles as Henrik pedaled to work across Copenhagen Harbor, and hundreds of tires whistled over wet pavement. Clouds streaked and curled across the sky, with gray masses on the horizon promising more rain.
The strike was over. In order to protect men not involved in the resistance, all sabotage by shipyard workers was over. Until further notice, they would advocate only slowdowns and shoddy workmanship. The order came from high in resistance circles, according to Gaffel.
Henrik guided his bicycle off the bridge. What had Gaffel been thinking leaving that message at the boardinghouse to arrange an emergency meeting about the strike? Gaffel wasn’t supposed to know Anker’s real name or address—or use it. And announcing a Sunday meeting at a jeweler’s shop? Picking up a watch? A man like Hemming Andersen didn’t own a watch.
Sloppy mistakes like that had gotten too many men killed.
At least Else had covered for Henrik. Over dinner she’d asked if his uncle’s watch was fixed and mentioned how kind Hemming was to bring it to the city for repair.
Clever Else.
Dinner with Else, Laila, and Fru Riber was a poor substitute for a seaside rendezvous alone with the woman he loved, but it had to do.
After dinner, Fru Riber had gone upstairs to her quarters, and the ladies had tuned the radio to the BBC while Henrik watched the door. Although the Germans still hadn’t banned the Danes from listening to the British station, they didn’t approve—and neither did the landlady.
The broadcast answered Henrik’s nagging question about the explosions he’d heard. As soon as the Germans declared martial law, they’d interned all members of the Danish military and occupied all Danish military bases, including the naval base at Holmen in Copenhagen Harbor.
Refusing to surrender their warships, the Danish navy had scuttled the fleet, setting off explosions that sank the ships. Rumors were, several Danish vessels had escaped to Sweden. The Germans had captured only a fraction of the fleet, mostly small patrol boats.
The navy had taken much criticism for not firing a single shot when German ships sailed into Copenhagen in 1940. Now they’d redeemed themselves, and pride in Denmark surged in Henrik’s heart.
When he arrived at the shipyard, he parked his bicycle.
By the gate, a sabotage guard smirked at the workers and stroked his machine pistol.
Henrik ignored him. Someday soon the guard would regret his actions.
The Soviets were advancing in the east, the British and Americans had secured Sicily, and the Allies grew stronger each day, bolstered by US production. The tide of war had turned, the waters were receding, and soon the Nazis—and the Danes who’d sided with them—would be stranded.
In the shipyard, fresh scaffolding surrounded ships on ways, and the scent of damp lumber filled Henrik’s nostrils.
Before starting work, he had to find Gunnar Skov and apologize.
Why had apologizing to Skov never occurred to him? Else had seen the need in him and had nudged it into the open. She saw Hemming’s goodness in Henrik—believed it resided in him—and that belief made Henrik see it too.
Skov stood talking with Rasmussen and Beck by a stack of lumber. Perhaps Henrik should wait until he could talk to Skov in private.
Why? Although a reprimand deserved privacy, an apology deserved a public airing.
Henrik stepped closer and cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”
Skov sneered at him. “What do you want?”
Henrik removed his cap. “I’m sorry I was mean. I should not have called you names.”
“Names?” Skov barked out a laugh. “Did you fellows hear what he called me? He had the nerve to call me an idiot. The shipyard idiot called me an idiot.”
Rasmussen and Beck glanced away as if embarrassed for Skov.
Henrik’s chest burned, not for being called an idiot—a reputation he’d cultivated—but for having his apology thrown back in his face.
Skov sauntered over. “Know what I think of you? Huh, idiot? Huh?” He spat, hitting Henrik’s cheek.
The burn in his chest crackled into flame, but Henrik merely wiped his cheek with his sleeve, never breaking his gaze.
Then something swelled inside. Compassion for a man who had been slighted, a man full of pride and insecurities. A man not unlike himself.
The burn cooled. His voice softened. “I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” He left before Skov could further embarrass himself.
Lightness flooded him, elevating his eyes toward the office building, to the top floor, where a man sat, full of pride and insecurities. A man who’d never been known to apologize.
Did Far think apologizing would mean he’d lowered his standards? Did he think it would diminish him?
On the contrary. This lightness, having humbled himself and admitted his wrongs, this lightness felt better than winning Olympic gold.
If he ever had the chance, he’d apologize to Far for his sins and failures and rebellion, even if the apology wasn’t accepted, even if Far mocked humility as weakness.
If Far ever chose to apologize, even in the slightest way, Henrik would receive it with gladness.
And if Far never apologized?
Another great swell inside, of compassion and regret and love.
“I forgive you, Far,” he whispered toward his father. “I truly forgive you.”
35
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1943
White chalk covered a green-black slate with equations. Jørgen Wolff brushed his hands together in a puff of white dust. “Well done, everyone. See you tomorrow.”
Even though Wolff’s research didn’t lie in Else’s area of interest, she hadn’t stopped smiling since her transfer three weeks earlier. The team exchanged ideas and credit freely, and Else had even earned a certain cachet for standing up to Mortensen.
She slipped her notebook into her briefcase, shed her lab coat, and put on her suit jacket and hat.
Kaj Knudsen held open the door for her.
“Thank you.” Else smiled at him as she exited. “Any plans for the weekend?”
He fell in beside her. “I’m taking my girlfriend to Det lille Apotek for her birthday.”
“Such a lovely old restaurant.”
Knudsen grunted. “It’d be lovelier if they didn’t close at seven thirty to meet curfew.”
“I know.” The military state of emergency had remained in place for almost three weeks.
“Did you hear?” Knudsen spoke low. “Rozental went to Sweden. I’m glad.”
“Oh my. I can’t believe it’s come to this.” Nuclear physicist Stefan Rozental, a Polish Jew, had been welcomed by Bohr at the institute in the 1930s, along with dozens of other refugee scientists. Most had moved on to other, safer nations, but a few remained.
Manfred Gebhardt approached from the stairwell with his dark hair in its usual disarray, and he grinned at Else and Knudsen. “See you Monday.”
“Going home to Germany this weekend?” Knudsen’s voice held a sharp edge.
“Ja.” Gebhardt gave a quizzical frown as he passed, and he entered Mortensen’s lab.
Else led the way down the stairs, and she gave Knudsen a similar quizzical frown. “I thought you and Gebhardt were friends.”
Furrows split Knudsen’s forehead. “I don’t trust him. Rask heard him asking Mortensen about the use of heavy water as a neutron moderator.”
“That isn’t related to Mortensen’s research.”
“Exactly. What is it related to?”
Many scientists had proposed using heavy water to control fission nuclear chain reactions. “You don’t mean . . .”
Knudsen stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Mortensen is an expert in the separation of isotopes.”
To create an atomic weapon required separating the fissile U-235 isotope from uranium ore. Else lowered her voice to a whisper. “Bohr says it doesn’t have any practical applications.”
“What if Bohr’s wrong?”
Almost a blasphemous thought, but . . . everyone at the institute knew the Germans were exploring the possibility.
Else’s eyes and mind widened. “You think the Germans sent Gebhardt to—”
Knudsen pressed his finger to his lips and glanced upstairs. “We should be very careful what we discuss around him. We don’t want to help our neighbors to the south.”
Indeed not. If the Germans built an atomic bomb, the Allied cause would be lost.
“Rask is keeping a close eye on him,” Knudsen said. “He put an end to that conversation.”
“I might not like Mortensen, but I don’t think he’d—”
“Not intentionally. But he’s a proud man.”
And Gebhardt fawned over him. Else thought he did so to avoid abuse, but what if he had other motives?
Footsteps thumped down the stairs above, and Else and Knudsen exchanged a look and stepped out of the stairwell.
They headed down the hallway, and Else’s stomach twisted. Gebhardt took the ferry home to Germany at least once a month. He said he visited family, but what if he gave reports to German physicists?
Knudsen opened the front door for Else, and a cool autumn evening greeted her.
The Institute for Theoretical Physics remained open even though Niels Bohr was half-Jewish.
Everyone assumed Werner Best, German Reich Plenipotentiary to Denmark, allowed this due to high international regard for Bohr, but what if they were mining the institute for information?
On the sidewalk, Laila waited for Else, as she had back when she worked at the Mathematics Institute next door.
Else said goodbye to Knudsen and grinned at Laila. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Laila held out a portfolio to Else. “We need copies—today.”
Else grimaced. “I can’t. Mortensen is out of town. I can’t say I’m making copies for him.”
“Then—then say they’re for Wolff.”
“He’d never ask me.”
Laila’s gaze became almost frantic. “We need them. Today.”
The churning in Else’s gut resumed. “I can’t go back inside without a reason. It’d look suspicious.”
“Stop being—” Laila’s face pinched in annoyance. “Be brave, Else.”
Else’s mouth tightened. Part of being brave meant not letting others push you into unnecessary danger. “We need to be both brave and smart. If people at the institute start wondering—”
“Don’t worry. Bohr’s on our side.”
“Not everyone here is.” She felt that more deeply now. “If I get caught, it could unravel the whole operation. Fru Riber already asks too many questions about our late hours. The next person who asks questions might ask them of the Gestapo.”
Laila sighed and her shoulders slumped. “I—I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m just so . . .”
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
They walked in silence down Blegdamsvej, then crossed the bridge over the chain of rectangular lakes that curved around Copenhagen’s city center.
Laila hauled in a loud breath and gazed down the length of water. “We have a source in police headquarters. Hundreds of Gestapo men arrived in Copenhagen this week.”
Else’s mouth fell open. “Hundreds? Oh my goodness. Are they cracking down on freedom fighters?”
“The Jews.” Laila turned sad dark eyes to Else. “This morning, the Gestapo raided the Jewish community center and took a card index—a roster of members. Not all the Jews in Denmark, but most of them.”
They could want a roster for only one reason, and Else’s fingers went cold. “Oh no. Are you going into hiding?”
“All six, seven thousand of us? Families with little children? Elderly people? How is it even possible?”
“I—I don’t know.” Surely something could be done. But what?
They turned onto the road that ran along the south bank.
Laila shook her head, making black curls swing. “I’m tired of thinking about it. Let’s talk about something else.”
“All right.” But what? The rumors about Gebhardt would hardly improve Laila’s mood. Nor would talk about the ever-increasing sabotage and ever-increasing arrests.
They strolled down the street under trees in autumn gold. Elegant buildings lined both sides of the lake, its waters reflecting the gray of the hazy sky.
On the sidewalk, someone had chalked a V in the shape of the Havmand’s tail. Her Havmand, and her heart brimmed to overflowing. What a great thing he was doing—not just serving as a courier but inspiring people.
“Are you going to Søllerød tomorrow?” Laila asked in an overly cheery voice.
“I am.” Incongruous joy bubbled inside. But the past two Sundays with Hemming had been idyllic as they opened up to each other.
“Is Hemming going too?”
“Oh yes.” Else had spoken too eagerly, so she feigned nonchalance. “He mentioned it over breakfast.”
One corner of Laila’s mouth curled into a teasing question mark. “What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing.” Oh dear, she was becoming quite the liar.
Laila nudged her. “Something has changed recently.”
“Changed?” Her voice stretched up too high. Apparently she’d failed to conceal that change.
“When you think I’m not paying attention, you look at each other like people in love. Longing looks. Looks that talk.”
“It isn’t like that. I just have a crush.”
“A crush? You expect me to believe that? You’re practically giddy lately, giggling at nothing, grinning to yourself, blushing anytime Hemming’s name comes up. Like now.” Laila’s voice took on an accusing tone, an attorney with an overwhelming stack of evidence.
“It isn’t . . .” How could she say Laila was mistaken when her own cheeks testified to the truth? But she had to protect Hemming. “It’s just a crush.”
A grumble rose in Laila’s throat, and she snapped her gaze away.
To change the subject, Else pointed to the lake. “Look at the swans. Aren’t they beautiful?”
Laila whipped back to her. “Haven’t we always confided in each other?”
“We have.” Else tried a consoling smile.
“You’re keeping something from me.”
She had no choice. To tell Hemming’s secret to anyone—even Laila—would be reckless. Besides, it wasn’t her secret to share.
But her gut ached for Laila. “You’re my best friend.”
“Am I?” Hurt flared in her eyes. “Friends trust each other.”
“Laila . . .”
“No.” Laila knifed her portfolio through the air. “Don’t say anything unless you can trust me with the truth.”
A flicker of frustration kindled inside. Laila, of all people, should know the importance of keeping secrets in the resistance.
Except Laila didn’t know this had to do with the resistance.
And to tell her even that much would be to tell her too much.
Else opened her mouth then closed it. There was nothing more she could say.
Laila spun on her heel and marched down the street, her skirt swinging about her knees.
“I’m sorry.” Else had never intended to hurt her friend, but she had.
36
VEDBÆK
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
Henrik opened the front door of Lyd-af-Lys to find Else shaking out her umbrella. “Come in out of the rain.”
Janne Thorup stood at Henrik’s side. “May I take your wet things?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Else unbuttoned her raincoat.
Henrik helped her off with it. “I’m glad you came despite the weather.”
“I almost didn’t.” She laughed. “My grandparents called a taxi to take me to Holte. I convinced the driver to take me to Vedbæk instead.”
Janne took Else’s coat and umbrella. “You’ll want to warm up. There’s a fire in the fireplace and hot chocolate.”
“Thank you, Fru Thorup.” Else straightened her sweater, the blue and white one that hugged her waist and showed off her figure extraordinarily.
After Janne whisked Else’s things to the kitchen to dry, Else gave Henrik a look both shy and flirtatious.
And irresistible. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lowered his mouth to her ready lips. She leaned into him and slid her fingers into his hair, guiding him closer, uniting with him.
In the old days, if a woman had greeted him with a kiss like that, he would have rushed her straight upstairs. Not anymore.
Her sigh brushed his lips. “Once a week is not enough.”
“No. Especially not when I see you every day.”
“It’s hard to pretend. I—I don’t conceal my feelings well.” She lowered her chin.
Henrik rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head. For over a week, Laila’s chilly demeanor toward Else had been difficult for Henrik to watch, even more difficult for Else to endure. “I’m sorry I came between you and Laila.”
“Oh, you haven’t.” She raised earnest eyes. “She likes you, and she’d like you even more if she knew who you were. She’d be thrilled for us.”
“My secret comes between you.”
“Our secret.” She stroked the nape of his neck.
“If I moved—”
“Please don’t. I need—I like having you close.”
So did he. Far too much, and he frowned.
Else gave him a quick kiss. “Moving wouldn’t change anything with Laila. At least she’s civil, so Fru Riber hasn’t noticed, especially with a houseful of students.”
