The Sound of Light, page 6
“Hardly.” Laila nudged her back. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t last. I think the man only knows two words.”
Ja and nej. The poor man struggled when he spoke. He’d probably struggled in school too, what little schooling he must have had. Surely he’d been teased. To come out of that with a gentle disposition was remarkable.
They turned down a path through colorful gardens shaded by trees in full leaf.
Two young men approached and tipped their caps to Else and Laila. The black peaked caps of the Germanic-Danish SS, recently named the Schalburg Corps after a Danish Nazi officer killed in Russia fighting for Germany.
The men would be mortified if they learned they were flirting with a Jewish woman. Although pointing that out would give a rush of ironic pleasure, Else didn’t want to endanger Laila. No antisemitic laws had been implemented in Denmark, but the Danish Nazis were infamous for harassing Jewish people.
So Else looked right through the men as if they didn’t exist. Den Kolde Skulder.
“Horrible,” Laila said in a fierce whisper after they passed. “Traitors to Denmark, to humanity.”
“Thank goodness there are so few of them.”
“Far more of us on the other side.” Her glare softened to sadness. “But far, far more sitting out the war.”
Else sighed. “I’m afraid my bravery doesn’t extend past roller coasters.”
They emerged from the gardens. Beside a shimmering lake, the Chinese Tower rose in red and black magnificence.
Before the war, Tivoli glowed at night, with light bulbs outlining each building, strung between trees, and reflecting in the lake, topped by fireworks shows in the summer. Although the park remained open during the occupation, the lights had been extinguished.
Laila leaned her forearms on the fence around the lake. “I’m not supposed to be involved with the paper, but I am. Now it’s your turn. We need you.”
Else glanced around, but no one stood nearby. She edged closer to her friend. “Me?”
“One of our duplicator machines broke, and another was captured by the enemy.” Laila’s voice barely reached Else’s ears.
“Oh dear.” Printing Frit Danmark required dozens of hidden machines.
“You have access to a duplicator, and thanks to Mortensen, no one would think twice if they saw you using it.”
“I couldn’t. It’s against the law.” Recently a dozen leaders of the illegal paper De frie Danske had received prison sentences up to two years.
Laila gazed to her right, where children queued for a boat ride. “We Danes are so good at following the law. What has it gotten us? The Germans are still here.”
“The Allies will come someday,” Else whispered.
Laila’s expression sharpened. “What then? They’ll snub us for not resisting. In every other occupied country, people make life miserable for the Germans. They have to send more troops to maintain order, drawing soldiers from the front. And we in Denmark do so little.”
“I know.” But Else’s stomach squirmed at the thought of riots and destruction and executions. Of deliberately causing conflict.
All her life she’d avoided conflict.
“Don’t you see?” Laila said. “By not opposing the Germans, we’re effectively allying with them. Isn’t that a greater evil? Isn’t that worth risking our comfort and safety?”
Across the lake, children frolicked on the playground. “Even if I took the risk myself, how could I bring risk to the institute? I’d have to use the institute’s machinery and ink and paper. That’d be stealing.”
Laila’s hands clenched together, tendons taut.
Time to change the subject. “But now, our carousel awaits.” Else gestured in that direction.
With one raised eyebrow, Laila told Else she wasn’t off the hook. But she followed Else around the upper loop of the lake, where children maneuvered tiny motorboats on the water.
One little tyke toddled down the stairs, squealing in joy, about to jump in. Just in time, his mother grabbed the child about the waist and scolded him.
Else smiled at the scene.
Laila stopped walking. “Have I told you the latest story circulating among the patriots?”
“Which one?”
“The Havmand.”
“The Havmand? A merman? No.”
Laila resumed walking, a dreamy look on her face. “They say he swims the Øresund bringing information and equipment between Sweden and Denmark.”
“Swims? The water’s freezing most of the year.”
“That’s what they say.” Laila shrugged. “It’s horribly romantic, don’t you think?”
“It is.”
“He’s breaking the law, you know.”
Else nodded. If the story were true—in some variation—the man was willing to break the law and risk his life.
Even as carousel music arose, cheery and bright, Else frowned. She’d always been careful not to do wrong, but people in the resistance had no such qualms.
They claimed to be doing right.
Could doing wrong ever be right?
Laila was printing the news, the truth, which was right. But the Germans called it wrong, as did the Danish government.
Laila and this Havmand, if he existed, were opposing evil, and opposing evil was right.
Else’s mind whirled like the carousel, up and down and round and round. Was it right to do wrong to do right?
11
VEDBÆK
SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1943
Thorvald Thorup licked one finger and raised it to test the wind. “Couldn’t ask for better conditions.”
Henrik leaned back against the stone wall of the boathouse at Lyd-af-Lys. Sunlight sparkled on the Øresund, and a gentle breeze played with the water. “I should have a good crossing tonight.”
“As long as you stay clear of mines and patrols.”
Not much Henrik could do about those, especially on a moonless night.
Thorup lifted a face reddened and lined from a lifetime outdoors. “Days like this almost make you forget there’s a war on.”
“Mor loved springtime at Lyd-af-Lys.”
“She was a good woman. She taught you well.”
Henrik let out a scoffing little laugh. “I doubt she’d agree.”
“She would the last few years. I see a lot of her in you.”
Henrik studied the man. Thorup wasn’t going senile, was he? “Nonsense. I’m like my father.”
Thorup shrugged. “Sure, you used to have his sharp tongue and you could be rude to the staff. And we’d all go running when you and your father fought. But you’re your mother’s son. You’ve always watched out for other people. I always thought you had so much . . .” His face clouded over.
Henrik’s throat constricted, but he forced out the word. “Potential.”
One slow nod.
Even though Henrik closed his eyes, he couldn’t shut off the images pounding his mind.
Far bellowing at him. “Late, as always. Drunk, as always. And your work—if you can call it that—you’re wasting your potential. As always.”
Henrik had flung his arms wide. “So what? For years, I did as you wanted—but it was never good enough. So now I do what I want. If you don’t like it, what do I care? I’m used to it.”
The more Far had ranted, the more Henrik rebelled. And the more Henrik rebelled, the more Far ranted.
Sin beget sin beget sin. The rebellion Henrik had embraced as his rightful revenge was no less wrong than Far’s cruelty. Considering Henrik’s behavior, a portion of Far’s harshness was warranted.
Henrik winced. Not when Far directed his harshness at Mor and Henrik’s sisters. Not when his rigidity caused a sick woman to hold a dinner party that met his demands.
At the time, Henrik had been sailing home from America after his graduation from Harvard. His sisters told him Mor had developed bronchitis a few days before the party, but Far insisted it was too late to cancel. He had important guests on the list, guests he needed to impress. Mor had indeed impressed them with a beautiful and elaborate evening. In the effort, she’d pushed her bronchitis into pneumonia.
She never recovered.
In Henrik’s opinion, Far had killed Mor as surely as if he’d shot her.
With a shake of his head, Henrik pushed away from the boathouse wall. “I’m going for a bike ride.”
“No nap?”
“Later.” He smiled to let Thorup know he wasn’t annoyed with him for speaking his mind.
After he fetched his bike, Henrik pedaled south down the coastal road.
He couldn’t tell Thorup he had an appointment with the Special Operations Executive agent. Better to meet the agent, tell him why he couldn’t get more involved, and be done with it.
His head low, Henrik rode past lavish beach homes behind stone walls. But what aristocrat would suspect the scruffy man on a dented bicycle of being one of their own?
He’d chosen a meeting place in the Jægersborg Deer Park, about two miles from Vedbæk and even farther from Søllerød, where he might see Else.
Part of him welcomed that idea. He always saw her inside. He’d like to see her outside, the wind tossing her flaxen hair, the sun bringing out the pink in her cheeks. Maybe to have a genuine conversation with her and see her glowing zeal turned his way.
Henrik huffed and pedaled down a wooded stretch of road. If he could talk openly with Else, he’d offer to have words with that Mortensen. She was too sweet to tell him off herself.
Like Mor quietly enduring Far’s anger.
Henrik, on the other hand, hadn’t endured Far’s anger. He’d absorbed it, every biting word. For fourteen years, he’d absorbed the anger, and it had fermented inside, loathsome and noxious, until at last, in one moment of clarity, he’d turned from his father and all he stood for.
After he rode through the village of Skodsborg, he took a rustic path into the Deer Park. Trees closed in around him, and new leaves rustled in the breeze.
He bumped down the path until he came to Bøllemosen, a pond deep inside the park.
Henrik dismounted and scanned the area. A dark-haired man with a fishing pole sat on a log, and a basket sat beside him on a red blanket—the sign. He rolled his bicycle forward, his gaze probing the beech woods, his ears tuned to footfalls or voices, his muscles tense and wary.
The man appeared to be alone.
But he appeared rather skinny and stooped for an agent.
Regardless, Henrik would play the game, then end the game. He pushed his bike closer. “Excuse me, Herre. I am lost. Do you know the way to Helsingør?”
The man met his gaze through thick glasses. “Elsinore?” he asked in English, as he was supposed to.
“Alas, poor Yorick.”
“I knew him, Horatio.” The SOE agent cast his fishing line into the water.
A fraction of the tension released. Henrik leaned his bike against a beech tree, removed the basket strapped to the back, and searched for wood to use for carving.
“Østergaard said you are the Havmand. You’re becoming quite the legend in resistance circles.”
Henrik winced. He’d heard the whisperings too. Using code names allowed the resistance to trumpet the exploits of freedom fighters in anonymity, but Henrik would have preferred even his code name to have remained secret.
His back to the agent, Henrik clenched his jaw and tossed aside a twig too small to carve. “What else did Østergaard say?”
“That you are an aristocrat who became a shipyard worker to protect your alias.”
Henrik would have words with Svend later tonight, and he bent to examine a silver-barked branch on the ground. “Did he mention either name?”
“No. Do not tell me.”
“I have no intention of doing so.” Henrik snapped twigs off the branch. “Because I have no intention of working with you.”
“Østergaard said you’d say that.”
“Perhaps now you’ll accept it.” Henrik put the stripped branch in his basket and passed to the agent’s other side, eyeing the man’s bony back. “If anyone were to make a connection between either identity and the Havmand, those who help me would be endangered. And the resistance would lose a courier.”
“Even so, we need you.” The agent adjusted his cap. “We need a liaison between the shipyards and resistance groups, a liaison between shipyards.”
Koppel wanted that connection. A dead tree stood not five feet behind the SOE man, and Henrik inspected it with a twinge of guilt in his gut. “I can’t risk what I’m already doing.”
“As someone who uses your courier service, I understand. But I’m willing to risk it. We need smart liaisons, strong leaders. Østergaard says you’re the right man.”
Henrik’s shoulders twitched, and he added a chunk of wood to his basket. Far had groomed him to lead, and for most of his life Henrik had also wanted to lead—but for selfish purposes.
After the occupation, he’d traded self-gratification for self-denial. In the process, he’d traded away his desire for leadership.
It was for the best, for the sake of others. Every time he’d had a leadership position, he’d abused it. At the Olympics, his biting words had slowed the boat rather than propelling it forward, and had cost him the gold he’d craved.
The SOE agent whipped his fishing line out of the water, then cast it back in. “The Allies are winning. The resistance groups are uniting. Sabotage is increasing. It’s time for patriotic Danes to fight back.”
“I’m already doing so.”
“We need more from you. We need leaders.” The SOE agent shifted his scrawny backside. “If you need time to think about it—”
“I do.” The words came before he could stop them, from a place he couldn’t recall.
“Next week. Same place and time.”
“Ja.” Henrik lumbered away with his half-full basket.
What if Thorup was correct? What if he did carry Mor’s concern for others? What if he’d changed enough?
For years, he’d lived as a different man, a changed man. Was it possible to lead as this changed man? In a positive manner?
What better way to find out than to take a small step in that direction?
12
COPENHAGEN
THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1943
With the undergraduates in their rooms studying for exams, the only sounds in Fru Riber’s living room were the flipping of the pages of Laila’s book and the scrape of Hemming’s knife over wood.
Else had read the paragraph in her novel a dozen times without comprehending. Her insides felt like a lump of laundry in her mother’s modern washing machine, churning, dampening heart and lungs.
Laila turned another page. “Have you talked to Bohr?”
Else winced. She couldn’t print Frit Danmark without asking permission from Niels Bohr. How could she use institute resources and bring danger to its doors without asking the director? Although Bohr was known to be sympathetic to the resistance, Else hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him. Especially not today. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”
“All right,” Laila said in a tight voice, as if Else’s reluctance turned a knob on her vocal cords, every day another twist.
Else willed the words in her novel to enter her mind. But they scattered.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Laila said.
The students’ chatter over dinner had masked Else’s silence. “Bad day.”
“What did Mortensen do this time?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned a page, not that it mattered.
Laila swiveled on the sofa toward her. “Come on. I can see you’re upset.”
“It—it’s too humiliating.” Else’s shoulders hunched, as if to block the words she’d heard.
“What did he do?” Laila said in that fierce voice of hers.
Trapped. Else laid down her book and rubbed her temples. “I wasn’t supposed to hear. I overheard him.”
“What did he say?”
Across the room, Hemming bent over his knees, whittling, with a line of wooden animals on the little table beside him as if marching to Noah’s Ark.
Laila nudged her. “Else?”
The sympathy in her friend’s voice undid her and set her lips to quivering and her mouth to speaking. “I was returning from his errand. He was in the corner talking to Gebhardt.” Her throat squeezed shut.
“Yes?”
Else pulled herself together. “Mortensen said I was trying to be both a physicist and a woman, and I should choose one or the other. Because I don’t do either well.”
“This must stop.” Hemming’s voice boomed from across the room.
Else sucked in her breath.
He was every bit the Viking warrior with his brows low and his eyes burning.
Then his expression collapsed, and he sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”
Else shook her head. “No need to apologize. This is a common room. And—” And what did it matter who heard? Mortensen had only voiced what everyone believed. She was defective as a woman.
Laila leaned forward. “What did you say, Hemming? This must stop? How Mortensen treats Else? I agree. It’s horrible.”
Hemming glanced to his animal parade. “Else, what is your—favorite animal?”
He was changing the subject in a bumbling way, which only made it sweeter. She took a shaky breath. “I love dogs.”
Hemming ran his hand along the tabletop, picked up a figurine, and crossed the room. “Why? Because dogs are friendly and loving and loyal?”
Else stared way up at him. “Yes. Yes, that’s why.”
Hemming switched his gaze to Laila. “Like Else, ja?”
“Ja.” Laila hugged Else’s arm. “Friendly and loving and loyal.”
Her chin lowered in embarrassment. But how she preferred embarrassment to humiliation—similar emotions, yet so different.
Hemming squatted down to her level and set a wooden dog on top of her book. “For you.”
“For me?” She scooped it into her hand, and a wobbly smile rose. The little dog sat on its haunches, with perky ears and a tilt to his head as if listening. “Oh, Hemming, he’s adorable. Thank you.”
