The Sound of Light, page 29
By the table stood Far. His gaze flew to Henrik—and his face fell.
The shock stopped Henrik cold, and he fought to pull himself together. What was their game today? How could Henrik protect his father?
“Baron Ahlefeldt,” the Gestapo officer said to Far. “Out of gratitude for your services to Germany, you have ten minutes to say goodbye to your son.”
“Tak,” Far said in a clipped tone.
Goodbye. That meant his execution would be soon. And the dreadful longing resumed.
Now he had an opportunity to say what he needed to say to his father—but how could he when he needed to convince the Gestapo he hated him?
“Far, I—”
His father raised one hand to silence him, and for the first time in decades, Henrik obeyed—out of newfound respect and out of a sense that Far had come for a reason.
“Sit down, Henning.” Far motioned to the chair. “You look . . .”
Henrik hobbled to the chair. He could only imagine how he looked, two weeks after his last good meal, chunks of his beard missing and scabbed over, his eye swollen shut.
He lowered himself into the chair, and Far sat across the table with his back to the officer and guard.
Far clasped his hands on top of the table, and his knuckles whitened. “They’re holding you at Vestre Fængsel, I understand. Do you come here every morning? Even on Sundays?”
“First thing every day. Never thought I’d be punctual to work, did you?”
Far’s cheeks pocked, then flattened, and his eyes pinched. “I spoke to Svend’s parents. They’re sorry to hear what you’ve done, disappointed in you, of course.” He cast his eyes in the officer’s direction.
Henrik smirked. “I only regret getting caught.”
“Such a shame, they said. If only you could visit their villa, they’d talk sense into you.”
Odd. Henrik had never had that sort of relationship with the Østergaards. “Too late for that.”
Far sighed. “They wish we could go back to the days when you and Svend spent summers at their villa. You remember their villa.”
“Yes.” Although he’d never spent a summer there. What was Far up to?
“How you and Svend used to row at the villa. How you rowed.” His gaze and voice held a strange intensity.
Henrik and Svend had never rowed at the Østergaard villa, always on the lakes. Was Far communicating a message? If so, what on earth was he saying?
“Yes,” Henrik said in a measured tone. “How we rowed.”
Far huffed. “To think you used the skill I taught you to betray your people.” But his expression spoke of pride.
Henrik had to address the most vital topic. “I don’t apologize for being the Havmand, nor for the sabotage. It was my duty as a Dane. But I do apologize for how I behaved before the occupa—”
“Don’t apolo—”
“I must. I hate what you’re doing now. Despise it. But my rebellion when I was younger was wrong. Mor’s faith has become my own, and I must confess my sins.”
Far’s face reddened and contorted. “I drove you to it. I was too hard on you.”
Henrik leaned over the table, intensified his gaze, and dropped his voice to a breath. “I’ve already forgiven you.”
Far’s eyes stretched wide.
“Speak up, prisoner,” the officer said. “No whispering, or I’ll end this meeting.”
Henrik leaned back in his chair and curled his cracked lip. “As I said, yes, you drove me to it. Everything you did to me, everything you taught me—that made me the Havmand.”
Although Henrik had kept his tone cynical, Far seemed to comprehend his meaning. His forehead puckered, and his deep-set blue eyes gleamed like the Øresund on a summer day. “From the beginning, I sensed something special about you. I knew—I knew you were destined for greatness. And in my determination to bend you toward greatness, I—I broke you.”
“No, Far. I’m not broken. I will never be broken.”
Far’s gaze spilled over with the approval Henrik had sought for years, and he silently mouthed, “I’m proud of you.”
Henrik soaked it in, parched as he was, no longer needing his father’s approval but rejoicing in it.
With the Gestapo watching his every expression, listening to his every word, how could he communicate his love, his pride in his father?
He swallowed, moistened his lips, and tipped up his chin. “I am Henrik Ahlefeldt.”
Father’s face buckled, and he nodded.
“Your time is up,” the officer said. “Baron, say goodbye to your sorry excuse for a son.”
Henrik pushed himself up to standing.
Far stood too and fixed a strong gaze on Henrik. “Till we meet again.”
“Till we meet again,” Henrik said. But they never would.
“Guard, take the prisoner upstairs. I’ll see our guest out.”
Henrik headed for the door before the guard could drag him, and he gave his father one last significant gaze as he passed.
The guard hustled Henrik up to the fourth floor. Screams, moans, angry shouts, thuds, and cracks shattered the putrid air.
But nothing—nothing the Gestapo did could shatter his joy.
Once again, the goon tied Henrik’s elbows behind him and looped the rope over the hook on the wall. He swaggered around, preparing his loathsome instruments.
Henrik closed his eyes and prayed to get through another day.
The door opened, and the Kriminalkommissar sauntered closer in his shiny black boots. “Such a touching scene. Father and son. If only you could have more time together. If only you could be reconciled. The man obviously loves you, despite your crimes.”
Henrik stared at a blotchy spot on the wall and scrolled through an inventory of songs. Focusing on a song helped him endure.
“I have a proposition for you, Ahlefeldt. Out of respect for your father, we’re offering you a chance to live.”
A spark of hope tugged his eyes toward the officer, but he resisted and extinguished it. How many times had they offered his life in exchange for names?
The officer paced in front of him. “This Havmand character is quite popular. What if you used the voice of the Havmand for good instead of evil? What if you worked with us instead of against us?”
He stood right in Henrik’s face, blocking his view of the spot on the wall. “You could have a great influence on your people. You could be reunited with your family and live in freedom and luxury. You could live.”
Henrik slammed his eyes shut. Memories flooded his mind of Mor reading in the nursery, of Else reading in the garret, and the voices of the women he loved pointed to the truth, to the story that had inspired him on the harbor three and a half years earlier.
He pierced the Gestapo officer with his gaze. “Are you familiar with Hans Christian Andersen’s tale of the Little Mermaid?”
The officer’s chin drew back. “Pardon?”
“Den Lille Havfrue exchanged her voice for legs so she could win the heart of the prince. But the prince married another, dooming the Little Mermaid to die the next day. Then her sisters came to her with a dagger from the Sea Witch. Plunge it into the heart of the prince, they said, and she would have her fins again—she would live.”
The officer crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’re telling me a fairy tale instead of responding to my offer?”
“I am responding.” Henrik pulled himself as tall as his restraints allowed. “Just as the Little Mermaid refused to kill the prince she loved, I refuse to accept your poisonous knife of lies and plunge it into the heart of the people I love. Like the Little Mermaid, I choose death.”
The officer took one step back. “So be it.”
48
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1943
If Else’s career had languished in Mortensen’s lab, it would suffocate at the University College of Stockholm unless she learned Swedish quickly.
Words floated around the laboratory, and Else snatched a few out of the air. The physicists spoke English when addressing her, but she missed the ebb and flow of ideas.
She sighed and put on her coat and hat for lunch. At least she had work.
After Else and the other refugees had arrived in Sweden, customs officials inspected their luggage, physicians examined them, and police checked papers of all who had them. Then they’d been taken to a comfortable camp where they’d received food and clothing. Laila had joyfully reunited with her family.
The Danish Refugee Office had just opened in Stockholm, and Laila took a job there to help refugees find employment and housing. Else moved into an apartment with Laila and found a position in the department of physics, thanks to the many physicists there who had worked with Niels Bohr.
On her way downstairs, Else passed scientists in conversation. Bohr had gone to England, but Wolff, Hevesy, and Levi were in Stockholm. If only Wolff could set up his own lab, but he spoke in nebulous terms about other plans.
Outside, a cloudy sky hung over the tree-lined street, and Else headed down Kungsgaten. Despite her coat, a shiver ran through her.
She was meeting Svend and Birgitte Østergaard at a café. The Thorups had contacted Svend soon after their arrival, and the family had already become dear to her.
If anything had happened to Hemming, Svend would know.
She passed a dark-haired couple speaking Danish, and Else summoned smiles for her fellow refugees. At the Refugee Office, Laila had learned that thousands of Danish Jews had arrived in Sweden. From what they could tell, the Germans had arrested only a few hundred, not the sixteen hundred originally reported. It was miraculous.
At the café, Svend stood and gave her a soft smile. “Good day, Else. No news.”
Relief flooded her heart, then subsided. Hemming still lived. But Hemming was still imprisoned and undergoing torture. Else endured a continual state of mourning, heavy and dense.
After Svend pulled out a chair for her, Else sat and worked up a smile for quiet and sweet-natured Birgitte.
They each ordered Köttbullar meatballs, mashed potatoes, and lingonberry sauce. Then Svend asked Else about her work, and she asked the Østergaards about their children.
When the food arrived, Svend poked at a meatball with his fork. “Henning always loved Frikadeller. He went through a tremendous growth spurt when we were about twelve, so I sneaked him extra meatballs from my plate. When I had my growth spurt, he returned the favor.”
Else’s smile wobbled. She craved Svend’s stories even as they made her ache. “He—he treasures your friendship. When he was in his most rebellious years, you—your stability and steadfastness—they were an anchor to him.”
Svend’s pale face turned blotchy, and he cleared his throat.
Else took a bite of a savory meatball in cream sauce. Hemming hadn’t talked much about Svend, but his journal often mentioned “S.” Else had read the entire journal twice.
She scooped mashed potatoes onto her fork, then paused. “I—I have his Bible and journal. After the war, I’d like your help to return them to his family.”
Svend speared her with his gaze. “Henning isn’t dead.”
“It’s only a matter of time.” Her throat cramped around the words.
“I beg to differ. The Nazis may be brutal, but they aren’t stupid. If they execute the Havmand, they create a martyr, a symbol for Danes to rally around. No, they’ll quietly deport him to a concentration camp. And he’s strong. If anyone can survive, he can.”
Else gave a jerky nod. If only she shared his optimism. The Germans might not want to make a martyr, but they delighted in making examples. Executing the Havmand would send a shock wave through the resistance.
And the Nazis exulted in power over all else.
Birgitte covered Else’s hand with her narrow hand. “How are you doing?”
Else breathed in all she’d learned the past few months. What had Hemming written about her? “She has succeeded in adding courage to her excellent list of virtues.”
She squeezed Birgitte’s hand. “I will be all right.”
COPENHAGEN
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1943
Sundays were meant for church, for relaxing with Else by the sea. Not for torture.
The prison van rumbled down the street with eight dejected prisoners and the guard Henrik nicknamed Stomper for his pastime of stomping on the remains of Henrik’s right foot.
Soon it would come to an end, probably in the coming week. Since Far’s second visit, the interrogations had lessened. They’d even let the swelling in his eye recede. It was time to toss the wrung-out rag of his life before the firing squad.
The van slammed to a stop, and Henrik bumped into the prisoner beside him. The horn blared. Bicyclists enjoyed interfering with Gestapo vans, just for spite.
A sharp crack. A gunshot?
Henrik sucked in a breath, and Stomper gripped his gun.
Shouts outside, cries. Another shot. Another. Were the Nazis shooting civilians? For blocking traffic?
Henrik’s gut burned. How long did the world have to endure Nazi barbarity?
The van lurched to the side, tipped, rocked Henrik onto his back. What on earth?
The man across from him cursed and slid off the bench.
“Someone’s breaking us out!” the man next to Henrik cried.
Could it be? Crazy, wild hope surged into his lungs. He had no time to mull over the possibility. “Help them, men! Help!”
Henrik slammed his back hard against the van’s side, and prisoners scrambled up onto the seat, pushing and leaning.
“I’ll shoot!” Stomper shouted. But he was down on hands and knees on the tilted floor.
Using his rowing muscles, Henrik worked his good foot beneath him, shot upright, and heaved himself backward.
A wobble. The van crashed to the side.
Henrik landed hard on his back, banged his head, cried out.
“Get the gun!” a man shouted.
How? They were handcuffed.
“I’ll kill you all.” Stomper had dropped his gun, groped for it, close to Henrik’s side.
With a grunt, Henrik rolled on top of the gun, rolled over it, blocking the guard. He stretched his fingers toward the weapon.
The man next to him worked a finger through the trigger. “I got it.”
One of the men stood and kicked Stomper in the stomach, over and over. “How do you like it, huh?”
“Stand back from the door!” a voice called from outside. “We’re breaking you out. Stand back.”
Henrik shoved up onto his knees and crawled back. His mind reeled. Could it be? No matter what, he’d enjoyed one last flash of hope. Of purpose.
A shot rang out. The door warped. Another shot.
The door swung open. Bright, fresh air flowed in.
“Out. Everyone out.” Arms reached in, beckoning, aiding.
Men tumbled out onto the pavement.
“No!” Stomper cried.
Men kicked him as they passed, and Henrik, the last one out, shoved by the guard’s feet but resisted the urge to stomp on one.
A man in a black balaclava grabbed Henrik’s elbow. “Andersen? Thank God.”
Henrik stared into the man’s familiar light eyes. Lars Koppel? Koppel had broken the prisoners out? This was planned? For him?
“Hurry! Over here.” A man in a balaclava worked a key into a set of handcuffs, and a prisoner shook his arms—free!
“I’ll get you!” Stomper crawled out, blood trickling from his twisted mouth. “You’re all dead.”
Koppel pointed a gun at him.
Kill him! Henrik gasped from the rage of the thought. For three weeks, he’d resisted hatred. He couldn’t succumb now. He threw up his cuffed hands. “Don’t!”
The gun fired. The guard collapsed.
“He could identify us,” Koppel said. “He could sound the alarm.”
Henrik’s gaze flew to the front of the toppled van. “The drivers!”
“Already dead. That’s where we got the key. Hurry, Andersen.”
Henrik hobbled to the man with the key—Jens Frandsen. The handcuffs fell away, and Henrik stared at unfettered wrists.
“That’s the last man,” Koppel said. “Everyone, go!”
Dozens of passersby cheered. Prisoners and men in balaclavas scattered and merged into the crowd.
“This way, Andersen. Hurry.” Koppel ducked into the café on the corner.
Henrik followed as fast as he could, but his foot screamed with each step.
They burst out the back door into the courtyard. Koppel yanked off his balaclava and dashed along, hugging the wall. Henrik mimicked him. They turned the inside corner and slipped in the back door of the adjacent building.
Koppel trotted up a staircase.
Henrik could only step up with his left foot and drag his right. “I can’t keep up.”
On the landing, Koppel stopped, his face soft. “The sooner we get you out of sight, the better. You stand out.”
Bracing himself on the banister, Henrik hauled himself up.
He was free? Truly free? He wouldn’t be executed this week?
The mud in his mind swirled, and colors appeared. He might live. He might actually live. He might see Else again. Have a life with her.
That hope propelled him up those stairs, down a wickedly long hallway, through a door between buildings, and down two more flights of stairs.
Koppel knocked on a door. One hard rap, three light raps, two hard.
The door opened, and Koppel bustled Henrik into the back of a barbershop.
Tom Rasmussen from the shipyard stood inside with another man in his forties and a young woman. Blackout curtains obscured the front windows.
Rasmussen twisted his hands before him. “Good day, Herre—Baron—Ahlefeldt.”
Koppel rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t believe I spent the last three years bossing around the owner’s son.”
Henrik stared at the men. “How did you—how did you find out? And call me Henrik—or Hemming.”
“Sit.” Koppel gestured to the barber’s chair. “We’ll turn you into a middle-aged businessman so you can escape. Rasmussen’s brother, Mikkel, is a barber, and his daughter will apply makeup.”
