The Sound of Light, page 30
Henrik eased himself into the barber’s chair. “All right, Koppel. What’s going on?”
Mikkel cranked back the chair over the sink and laid a hot towel over Henrik’s beard and mustache.
Koppel sat in the adjacent chair. “Your father learned of your arrest—and your resistance activity—from a family friend.”
Thorup. Water ran behind him, down over his scalp, warm and relaxing.
“He summoned me to his office.” Koppel clasped his hands between his knees. “He wanted to know everything about you—your work habits, your character, all that.”
With his eyes shut, Henrik grunted his understanding as the barber massaged shampoo into his filthy hair. Far must have been stunned to learn he’d never missed a day unless ill.
“I was shocked when he told me who you were, but it explained everything.” Koppel let out a wry chuckle. Then he coughed. “He and I—we put together this plan to break you out.”
The warm water cascading over his scalp threatened to lull Henrik to sleep. But he couldn’t afford to relax. Every Nazi in town would be hunting him. “What’s next?”
Mikkel toweled off Henrik’s head. “We’ll shave off your beard and dye your hair brown. My daughter’s drawing a bath for you upstairs. Your father brought clothes.”
Henrik’s throat swelled. He didn’t need to be told his father loved him—not when he’d shown it at the risk of his own life. He cleared his throat. “Then what?”
“Your father told you,” Koppel said. “Don’t tell us—the less we know, the better.”
Henrik stared at Koppel. “My father told me?”
“He told you where to go and how to escape.”
He had?
A pungent smell arose, and Mikkel massaged Henrik’s scalp again, working in hair dye.
Then the barber removed the towel from Henrik’s beard and began to shave, apologizing when he hit scabs and sores. “I—I don’t know if your beard will grow back fully.”
Koppel’s eyes smoldered. “What did those brutes do to you?”
Henrik waved one hand. He didn’t want to talk about it. And he had to figure out Far’s instructions. Far couldn’t have told him in front of the Gestapo. He would have used code.
What was it he’d said about Svend and Henrik rowing at the Østergaard villa? Row at the villa—he’d emphasized those words.
Had Far told him to go to Lyd-af-Lys and row across the Sound? The Gestapo would look for him there. Or did Far mean for Henrik to go to the Østergaard villa? They didn’t own a boat Henrik could use. That didn’t make sense either.
The barber whisked off the apron, and Henrik stared at his reflection. He’d forgotten how much he disliked his chin. And his face looked haggard, old.
The barber dumped his tools into the sink. “After your bath, my daughter will apply makeup. You won’t look so . . .”
“So much like a sailor with scurvy?”
Mikkel raised one eyebrow, not disagreeing. “Take your bath, rinse out the hair dye, and get dressed.”
“And fast,” Koppel said. “You need to get out of here for everyone’s sake.”
“Yes, sir.” Henrik pushed himself out of the chair and limped upstairs. In the bathroom, soapy water filled a tub, and a navy-blue suit lay on the clothes rack. Henrik’s own suit, and he fingered the fine cloth.
He stripped off his filthy, bloody clothes, and he lowered himself into the tub. He groaned with pain and pleasure. If only he could soak his wounds and relax away the tension. Instead, he scrubbed his bruised body and watched the water darken.
Far’s plan wouldn’t work. Henrik would be better off stealing a boat or bribing a fisherman. If there was ever a time to rebel against his father, it was now.
He gently washed his swollen foot in hues of red and blue and purple, and he winced. No, he was finished rebelling. He had to show respect for his father by trusting him.
Henrik unplugged the drain and toweled off. Far had sent a complete set of clothing—underwear, dress shirt, tie, three-piece suit, socks and shoes, gloves, overcoat, and homburg. And Henrik dressed himself as a gentleman once again.
Inside the inner pocket of the jacket he found a wallet stuffed with kroner—ten thousand kroner! And his own wristwatch from Lyd-af-Lys. He strapped it on, even though it rubbed the sores on his wrist.
The shoes. He glared at them. But he’d endured agony over the last few weeks. He could inflict pain on himself for the sake of escaping. And he did so.
Woozy from that pain, he straightened to standing. How could he get to the Østergaard villa in Skodsborg when he could barely walk?
He limped out of the bathroom.
Rasmussen pointed to the woodstove. “Burn the old clothes.”
Gladly. Henrik tossed in the bundle.
“Hold still, sir.” Mikkel’s daughter opened a little glass jar and dabbed makeup onto his face. Then she combed something into his hair above the ears. “A touch of silver.”
“One more thing.” Koppel held out a mahogany walking stick tipped with brass. “Your father sent this. It belonged to your grandfather.”
It had, and Henrik’s throat swelled yet again.
Koppel studied him. “Now you look less like an escaped prisoner and more like a gentleman with gout.”
All these people had helped him. People he wouldn’t have noticed in the past, now people he treasured. “Thank you.” His voice came out husky. “Thank you, all of you. Thank the others and my father—”
“Go.” Koppel gestured to the door. “Get out of here before you get us all killed.”
“I’ll show the way,” Mikkel said.
Henrik said goodbye and followed Mikkel, the walking stick easing the pressure on his foot.
Mikkel led him to a door out to the street. “There’s a tram stop two blocks to your left.”
Henrik thanked him again and stepped outside.
Police whistles blew, and men ran down the street and threw rocks at German security police.
Henrik shrank back, a hunted prisoner.
No, he wasn’t. He was a gentleman, so he assumed an air of curious alarm and flagged down a passerby. “Excuse me. What’s happening?”
The young man’s face lit up. “A mob overturned a prison van. They’re looking for escaped prisoners.”
“Oh my,” Henrik said in a vague tone, and he strolled down the street with that same air of curious, what-has-happened-to-my-fair-city alarm.
At the corner newsstand, he bought a copy of Berlingske Tidende, a respectable newspaper, and continued on his way.
The commotion faded, and Henrik heard a new sound—his heartbeat thumping in a strange beat of fear and hope.
49
STOCKHOLM
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1943
The clouds had cleared from the Swedish skies, and the pavement glistened with spent rain as Else walked home from church.
If only the clouds would clear from her life.
At least she’d understood more of today’s service than she had the previous Sunday. Taking a Swedish class with Laila in the evenings helped—and also kept her mind off Hemming.
She shuddered. Keeping her mind off him seemed selfish, as if she cared only for her own heart.
Outside her building, a middle-aged man leaned against the wall, and she smiled. “Good day, Wolff. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Come with me.” He gestured down Kungsgaten the way she’d come. “Quickly. We’re late for our meeting.”
“Meeting?” Had Bohr’s absentmindedness rubbed off on his friend? “It’s Sunday.”
“Please hold your questions.” He glanced around with his homburg low over his eyes. “There are Gestapo agents in Stockholm.”
Else frowned and walked alongside her mentor at a brisk clip. The Gestapo had no jurisdiction in Sweden, and Wolff hadn’t been part of the resistance. Why the secrecy?
They crossed the Kungsbron over the Klara Sjö, a canal that ran through the city, reminding her of dear Copenhagen.
On the far side, they turned right on a path along the canal. The path curved through a tiny park, where bare trees stretched spindly branches over still waters.
A man in his forties in a fawn-colored overcoat and a gray fedora sat on a bench. He stood when Wolff and Else approached. “Good day, Dr. Wolff.” The man spoke English with a Boston accent, something Else hadn’t heard since the occupation.
“Good day, Mr. Kramer.” Wolff shook the man’s hand. “I’d like to introduce Dr. Else Jensen. Jensen, Mr. Kramer is with the US State Department.”
“Charmed.” He took her hand, and a smile shot wrinkles around handsome brown eyes. “They’re making physicists far prettier than when I was in school.”
“How do you do?” Else forced a smile. One of those compliments that disparaged both her gender and her occupation.
“She has an American passport,” Wolff said.
What was this about? Why introduce her to someone from the State Department?
Mr. Kramer frowned at Wolff. “You’re sure she’s—”
“She’s brilliant,” Wolff said in a pinched voice. “Fully versed in the field.”
“I’ll be.” Mr. Kramer shook his head with half a smile. “So, Miss Jensen—”
“Dr. Jensen,” Wolff said.
Else suppressed a smile at Wolff’s protectiveness.
“My apologies, Dr. Jensen.” Mr. Kramer placed a gloved hand over his heart. “How would you like to return to the USA?”
“The USA?” Although Sweden was neutral, only high-priority passengers received passage across the Atlantic. “How is that possible?”
Mr. Kramer lowered his voice. “Your skills are vital to national security.”
Wolff nodded. “Bohr has been told to send team members to Britain, preferably to the States. For some of us, obtaining the paperwork has been challenging. Not for you.”
“My skills?” Else asked. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know the details myself.” Mr. Kramer glanced at their surroundings. “But if you agree, we’ll fly you to London, then put you on a ship to New York. You’ll be briefed later.”
Briefed? He made it sound like a military assignment.
Military? Her gaze locked on Wolff. “You don’t mean . . .”
Wolff pressed one finger to his lips, his dark eyes sharp as obsidian.
She held his gaze as questions raced. Could it be? Were the Allies working on an atomic bomb? Did that mean it was scientifically possible after all?
If Gebhardt’s interest was any measure, and if controlled chain reactions were indeed possible, the Allies and the Germans were in a race that could determine the fate of the world.
Wolff gave a solemn nod, as if he’d followed Else’s thoughts.
She let out a tiny gasp.
“What do you say, Miss—Dr. Jensen?”
Else’s answer could only be yes. Her country needed her skills. Any qualms she had about working on a devastating weapon paled in comparison to the fear of such a weapon in Nazi hands.
Also, if she returned to the US, she could see her parents and brothers.
But Hemming . . .
If she left Sweden, any news about him would be delayed for weeks or months. How could she bear it? Every step she took away from him felt like giving up on him.
“When—when do you need an answer?”
Mr. Kramer frowned. “I wanted an answer now.”
“Give her a few days.” Wolff shrugged. “You have to understand the turmoil we’ve endured.”
Mr. Kramer spread his hands and dipped his chin. “Ah yes, the feminine sensibility.”
“Let me think.” Else squeezed her eyes shut. Whether she thought one minute or one month, she would come to the same decision.
And no matter where she was in the world, she could do nothing for Hemming but pray.
Her eyes opened to a certain but unwanted future. “I’ll go.”
SKODSBORG, DENMARK
Henrik rang the bell at the Østergaard villa one more time. No response.
He leaned against the wall to take weight off his foot, and he groaned.
He’d misinterpreted Far’s message. What else had Far said? He raked his mind over their conversation, but no clues stood out.
Now what? He’d have to find a boat, but every interaction carried the risk of meeting a stikker or a German.
First, he needed to rest. He hadn’t eaten since his breakfast of a thin slice of rye bread at Vestre Fængsel, and now it was well past noon. He could at least sit somewhere out of sight of the coastal road and make plans.
He hobbled around the house. The Østergaards had a pier, but no boat. Behind the house, a tarp covered a large stack of firewood, which would block the wind and the view.
Henrik slid to the ground and leaned back against the wall with his right foot extended. Although his foot throbbed, he didn’t dare remove the shoe.
A piece of firewood could elevate it.
He lifted the corner of the tarp.
And saw light.
His boat! His ocean scull. “Far!”
Henrik scrambled to his knees and flung off the tarp. His scull lay on its side with his oars inside, even his supply box.
He opened the box. A note lay on top in Far’s handwriting, unaddressed and unsigned.
You have achieved greatness higher than I ever conceived in my flawed imagination. I’ve always loved you. Please forgive me for not telling you that every day of your life.
Because of your words, I’ll be able to continue my work here, which our mutual friends will appreciate.
Please pray for me, and I will pray for you. It’s time to make Mor’s faith my own as well.
Till we meet again in freedom. May it be soon.
Henrik’s eyes stung, and he tucked the note in his breast pocket and the words in his heart. Far would need many prayers continuing to pass intelligence to the Allies.
Blinking haze from his eyes, he examined the contents of the box—his balaclava, compass, flashlight, pistol, two canteens—Henrik screwed off a cap and downed blessed tinny water. And a stack of three rectangular paper-wrapped packages.
“Please . . .” He opened one. A smørrebrød.
Far had thought of everything. Henrik devoured it. Too quickly, and it threatened to come back up. He’d save the rest for later.
Henrik rested against the wall. He’d leave at five, half an hour after sunset.
Before him, the pier jutted into the Øresund. Ten miles of water stretched between him and Sweden, between him and freedom. Between him and Else.
Henrik woke in utter darkness. Prison! He was back in prison.
He gasped and flailed his arms.
He hit canvas, and the smell of varnish filled his nostrils.
Not prison, and his thundering heartbeat slowed. He’d lain down in the scull under the tarp to nap.
He lifted the tarp—almost as dark outside as in. He’d better not have burned up too much of the night.
His glowing radium watch dial read 6:15. Good. He needed every minute.
Henrik slithered out of the scull. Not a sliver of moonlight to help him, so he pulled the flashlight from his overcoat pocket and stashed everything in the boat, including the homburg and walking stick. Then he took a moment to eat a smørrebrød and drink some water.
After he pulled on the balaclava, he lifted the bow of the scull. Usually two men carried it, and Henrik wasn’t even at half his usual strength.
He dragged the scull down the grassy slope and grimaced from pain.
Finally he slid it into the water, and he collapsed onto his backside on the pier, panting. How on earth could he row ten miles?
“I can’t.” The words floated up to the hazy sky. He hadn’t the strength. His shoulders were wrenched, his foot mangled.
But if he stayed? He’d be caught again. Shot.
Worse. They’d want Koppel and Rasmussen and Frandsen and Mikkel and everyone who had helped the prisoners. They’d want Far.
A growl rose from deep in his gut. He couldn’t let that happen.
He lowered himself into the scull, which was difficult without Thorup to hold it steady, and he settled into his seat with his right leg lying alongside the rails. If his left leg tired too much, he’d grit the pain and use both legs.
Henrik shoved away from the pier and gripped the oars.
He took a stroke. His shoulders protested, and his one-legged layback faltered.
How could he do this? He had thousands of strokes to go. “Lord, I need your strength. I have none of my own.”
He pulled another stroke with a fraction of his usual power.
At best, he’d make it to Sweden. At worst, he’d fade into seafoam like the Little Mermaid and pass from the earth. Either way, he’d make sure he was never captured.
“For Else,” he murmured, and he rowed.
For Koppel. For Far. With each stroke, he remembered another person who had helped him. Another person to protect. Another person he loved.
He picked up some speed and found a rhythm in his crooked stroke, as his body accepted pain as its lot in life.
For Else. For Else. For Else.
50
STOCKHOLM
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1943
Laila had been so charmed by the bench along the Klara Sjö that Else hadn’t the heart to dissuade her. Although eating lunch where she’d met with Mr. Kramer wasn’t wise.
“The Refugee Office received a report from the Swedish police.” Laila folded the paper that had wrapped her smørrebrød, and her face glowed. “Over seven thousand Jews have arrived in Sweden from Denmark.”
Else’s mouth flopped open. “But that—that’s how many you thought lived in Denmark to begin with.”
“More than we thought. From what we can tell, the Germans arrested four hundred, five hundred at most.”
How horrible for those five hundred. Yet so many had escaped.
Laila tugged at her gloves. “Plus, several hundred non-Jewish family members have come, as well as helpers, like you and the Thorups.”
“All on fishing boats—”
