The Sound of Light, page 7
He peered at her with brilliant blue eyes. “What happens if you kick him?”
Else clutched the pup to her chest. “Kick him?”
One nod of that beard of gold and red. “What happens?”
How could anyone kick a sweet dog? But Hemming’s gaze didn’t relent, so she needed to answer. “He—he’d yelp. He’d back away.”
“Bite?”
“He might.”
“Is he still a good dog? A friendly dog?”
She studied his face, the sharp nose and the intensity in his deep-set eyes, and she unraveled his meaning. “I—I can’t bite Mortensen.”
Hemming rested tree trunk arms on his knees. “What do you do when he kicks you?”
Assurance stretched her spine. “He wants me to throw a hysterical fit so I’ll lose standing. But I refuse. I hold my tongue.”
“You are silent.”
“Yes.”
He pushed up to standing, a great unfolding of long torso and long limbs. “Sometimes silence takes much courage.”
A grateful smile rose. Yes, it did.
Hemming returned to his chair and picked up wood and knife. “Sometimes silence is nothing but cowardice.”
Else gasped, and the little dog’s ears poked her fingers.
Hemming glanced her way, grunted, and jerked his head to the side. “I’m sorry. That was . . . mean.”
“No, you weren’t mean.” Her mind whirled around his words, around the truth. “I have to figure out which one it is—courage or cowardice.”
“I think you already know,” Laila said in a soft voice.
Else’s eyes slammed shut. She thought she was acting in courage, in humility. But what if failing to confront Mortensen was nothing but cowardice? What if she’d spread false humility over her cowardice—a glossy sheen on an ugly lump of pride?
“I—I’m sorry.” Hemming’s voice sounded strangled.
“Oh, don’t be sorry.” She waited until he met her gaze. “Sometimes telling someone a harsh truth is the kindest thing you can do.”
His expression—she couldn’t decipher it. Shock. Understanding. Disbelief. All in one. As if her words had struck him as hard as his words had struck her.
“I hate seeing you miserable,” Laila said. “It’s getting worse.”
Laila was right. Hemming was right. Nothing would change unless she changed. She gave Laila a feeble smile. “I don’t know how to yelp.”
Laila wrapped her arm around Else’s shoulders. “If I know you, you’ll learn to yelp in a kind and polite manner.”
She leaned into the hug. “You’re a good friend.”
Hemming hunched over, attacking the wood with quick strokes.
She’d never heard so many words from him. He’d spoken with wisdom and strength, and her heart went out to him, not with the silly flutter of a crush, but with warmth for a friend. “Hemming? Thank you.” She pressed the little dog to her heart.
He flicked his gaze to her, then down to his wood. He grunted in masculine embarrassment. “You’re welcome.”
“Let’s practice.” Laila held out her hand. “May I have the dog?”
With a little chuckle, Else handed the pup to her friend.
Laila wiggled the dog as if he were speaking. “Pardon me, Mortensen. You stepped on my tail. Such behavior is unprofessional, unacceptable, and rude. If you do not cease and desist, I shall have no choice but to bite you on the rump.”
A giggle bubbled out. “And that”—Else mimicked Laila’s doggy voice—“would be unpleasant for both of us.”
13
MONDAY, MAY 10, 1943
For the first time in three years, Henrik walked down Bredgade, a few blocks from the family townhouse.
Thank goodness, Far wouldn’t be home. He always worked late.
The flagstones on the sidewalk shone dark from the heavy rains that had kept Henrik from crossing the Øresund the past weekend. But he’d met in the rain at Bøllemosen with the SOE agent, whose code name was Jam, and he’d agreed to this next step.
Men in well-tailored raincoats and expensive hats looked askance at Henrik’s cheap jacket and cap and scruffy beard, so he kept his eyes low.
When he’d learned the meeting place would be in his old neighborhood, he should have refused. Too many people could recognize him. Too many memories.
He could almost hear Far’s rants, as if the words had dissolved into the pavement and now rose with the evaporating rainwater.
Henrik’s hands balled up, but he forced his fingers straight.
Did he want to become more involved with the resistance to bring harm to the Nazis? Or to his father? Because if revenge played any role, he’d back out. He wanted no part of that. He needed to forgive Far—somehow—so he couldn’t indulge in vengeance.
The reports of Nazi atrocities had pushed Henrik over the edge. One could dismiss a single report as sensationalism, but the sheer quantity verified them.
In every occupied country but Denmark, oppressive conditions prevailed. Near-starvation rations. Forced labor. Severe punishments for minor offenses. Trainloads of people disappearing. Not just political prisoners and saboteurs, but ordinary civilians, sent to concentration camps because they were Jewish.
Horrible things happened in those camps. Some reports said a million people had been slaughtered. Men and women and children. Slaughtered.
The Danes needed to fight the Nazis because every decent human being needed to.
Henrik rounded the corner onto Frederiksgade, and the dome of Frederiks Kirke rose before him, the largest church dome in Scandinavia.
Four pillars graced the marble façade, and engraving on the pediment declared, “Herrens ord bliver evindelig”—the Word of the Lord endures forever.
After he removed his cap, Henrik climbed the shallow marble steps and opened the door.
Familiar smells filled his lungs. Every Sunday his family had been in town, Mor had taken him and his sisters to services here. Occasionally Far had joined them.
Henrik passed through purple curtains, drawn back on each side, and entered the circular sanctuary. Light from many windows brightened cold gray marble walls, and paintings of the twelve apostles adorned the inside of the massive dome.
Marmorkirken, the locals called it. Marble Church.
But he hadn’t come to admire the architecture or to remember his mother or even to worship. He’d come to meet a new contact, even more dangerous than exchanging envelopes in Søllerød Kirke.
Four columns of wooden pews filled the circular floor.
In a back pew, Jam sat with his dark head bowed. Toward the front, a handful of people sat praying.
On the far right about halfway up, a sandy-haired man sat. A gray overcoat lay over the back of the pew, draped so that a rolled-up newspaper protruded from the pocket. The signal for Henrik.
No one sat near the man, and no one else had an overcoat over the pew.
Henrik could still say no. He could leave right now and be done.
But he urged his feet onward.
He’d told Jam he would not meet with the contact if he recognized him, so he scrutinized the young man as he approached. His posture, his profile. Nothing triggered a memory.
When he reached the row behind the contact, Henrik dropped his cap. He walked forward a few pews, then checked his hands and returned for his cap, studying the man’s face out of the corner of his eye.
A stranger. Good.
Henrik sat behind the man. With his hands clasped, he lowered his head. “‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul.’” Henrik quoted Hebrews 6:19, announcing his new code name for this scheme—Anker.
“Have we come to a fork in the road?” In a low voice, the contact announced his own code name—Gaffel for fork.
“But which way to turn?” Henrik repeated the code phrase.
Gaffel turned a page in a Bible. “You work at Ahlefeldt’s.”
“What do you want of me?”
“A liaison. We need to recruit and organize there, to find a leader there.”
Henrik knew a leader who was already organizing. “Continue.”
“You would pass messages between the shipyard and our group, deliver materials, coordinate plans with us, arrange training sessions. Not just at your shipyard but at others. Jam said you have contacts.”
Henrik clamped his hands together. He’d already weighed the risks to his life and to his work as the Havmand, risks he was willing to take. The Anker code name would keep his liaison work separate from his courier work to protect the Thorups. “I have contacts.”
“Will you help us?”
“Yes.”
Gaffel slipped a piece of paper over the pew to him. “Instructions for our next meeting. Don’t read it here. Memorize it and burn it.”
Henrik shoved it into his jacket pocket, stood, and put on his cap, the signal to Jam that he’d decided to help. He strode out of the church without meeting the SOE agent’s gaze.
Circling to the rear of the church, he headed toward Store Kongensgade, then down the street past colorful buildings.
Although Henrik had taken on a greater burden, his heart felt lighter. The liaison role felt like a perfectly tailored suit. Leadership fit him.
The lightness puffed out his chest in the cool evening air, but experience clamped an iron belt around that puffery, that self-flattery. Leadership was like fire. In the right hands, it warmed all in range. In the wrong hands, it destroyed everything.
A week ago, he’d feared he’d hurt Else, all but calling her a coward—which he didn’t even believe. Yet she’d welcomed his words.
Henrik turned onto Gothersgade. Why had his harsh words been received? Why had Far’s harsh words been rejected?
The recipient determined much of the reaction. Else’s humble spirit instead of Henrik’s rebellious heart.
But the delivery mattered too. Far had derided Henrik for minor failures such as earning the second-highest mark in class. Far had cared nothing for his son, only for the image his son projected.
Henrik hadn’t derided Else. He’d given her a gift, complimented her virtues, and used a tone both firm and gentle.
“Far and Mor,” he whispered. If he could lead with Far’s decisiveness and Mor’s consideration, he could become the right kind of fire.
In a few minutes he reached the boardinghouse. His mission had cost him his dinner. After work, he’d had to pick up a message at one end of town and meet Gaffel at the other end. Since bicycles were in short supply, he didn’t dare ride his bike without knowing where he could park. And taking the tram cost precious coins. So he’d walked. Now it was almost seven.
Fru Riber had a strict rule that she didn’t feed those who missed dinner. At least she always had a loaf of bread in the kitchen.
Henrik climbed the stairs to the common area. Fru Riber would have retreated to her quarters, far from the chatter of the boarders.
In the living room, four students sat at the round table playing cards, and Else sat on a sofa by the stove.
She stood and smiled at him. “There you are, Hemming. I kept a plate for you.”
He stopped halfway to the kitchen. “You did?”
Else breezed past him into the dining room. “I figured you must have had to work late.”
Henrik followed her into the kitchen, his jaw dangling.
Else opened the oven door. “I reminded Fru Riber you aren’t an inconsiderate student, and she’d already prepared the food. Why waste it? She let me save a plate for you.”
Henrik had many things to say, watching her bustle around. For him. But all he could say was “Tak.”
A pretty shade of pink colored her cheeks as she passed him carrying a plate brimming with cod and potatoes. “She also served parsnips, but I’ve noticed you never take them.”
He hated parsnips. She’d noticed? “Tak.”
Else set the plate at Henrik’s place, rounded the table, and stood behind the chair across from his. “I can stay if you’d like company. Or . . .”
Henrik gripped the chairback, and his mouth opened to tell her he didn’t mind eating alone. But he did mind. He motioned to her chair.
She took her seat, beaming as if he’d given her a gift, not the other way around.
He reminded himself to sit like an oaf not a gentleman. Something about Else always made him forget to not use his manners.
Henrik bowed his head, silently said grace, then went to work on the cod.
Else wore a dark blue blouse with white dots, professional but feminine. “Thank you for letting me stay. Laila’s sleeping off a migraine—a headache. She needs dark and quiet, so I’m down here alone.”
Henrik glanced through the door into the living room, where the students roared in laughter over their card game. He smiled at Else. “Yes. Alone.”
“How was work?” she asked. “Are you building a ship?”
He had to smile. “Yes.”
She turned her head to the side and laughed, a charming sound. The week before, he’d opened the door to this tentative friendship. He ought to slam it shut against the dangers of openness and attraction.
How could he with those blue eyes dancing in amusement?
Else leaned forward, her face bright. “Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Day?”
“I’m going to yelp.”
At Mortensen. “Good.” He took a bite of creamed potatoes, fragrant with rosemary and nutmeg.
“I’ve decided what to say, and I practiced with Laila. Mortensen’s secretary will come with me. She has things to say too.”
Courage was contagious. He rearranged the words into Hemming’s vocabulary. “You are brave. Now she is brave.”
“Do you think so?” Her eyes darted back and forth as if pondering, and her mouth curved into a teasing smile. “I haven’t talked to him yet.”
“You will.” He spoke with conviction.
Her smile stretched wider, but then a shadow darkened her pretty eyes. “Would you—would you pray for me tomorrow?”
All day he would. While building ships all day, he would.
He gave her a brusque nod, then a little smile to erase the brusqueness. “Yes.”
14
TUESDAY, MAY 11, 1943
The clock in Mrs. Iversen’s office ticked in time with Else’s heart. It was almost four thirty, almost time to leave, and she still hadn’t spoken to Mortensen.
Twice, she and Mrs. Iversen had approached him. Twice, he’d been deep in discussion with Jørgen Wolff. Twice, Mortensen had shooed them away.
Else’s fingers tapped together in a frenetic rhythm. She’d told Laila and Hemming today was the day. She couldn’t go home in failure. “One more try?”
Mrs. Iversen shook her shoulders straight, making the rest of her jiggle. “This time the snake will not escape our grasp.”
Else worked up a smile for the older woman. Their allegiance not only provided support but added moral heft to their arguments.
She grasped the doorknob, and a quiver ruffled her throat. Every time she’d confronted someone, she’d lost something dear. If she confronted Mortensen, she could lose her position at the institute. But she could also lose her position if her career slowly withered due to silence.
Else opened the door. At the far end of the laboratory, Mortensen and Wolff sat before a blackboard covered with tempting equations and diagrams.
The first time Else had come to confront Mortensen, he’d been asking Wolff about methods to separate isotopes of large atoms. He hadn’t mentioned uranium, but he didn’t have to. If the unstable U-235 isotope could be separated out of uranium ore, the applications for energy would be enormous. And for weaponry.
Wolff had adamantly shut down that line of discussion.
And Else couldn’t let even physics distract her now.
As she marched, she dug her hand into her lab coat pocket and wrapped her fingers around the warm wood of the little dog from Hemming. His promise to pray infused more strength into her.
About six feet from the physicists, Else stopped, and Mrs. Iversen drew up beside her. Wolff smiled at them, but Mortensen kept talking.
Time to yelp. Else was done being nice to Mortensen. She’d continue to be kind, but not nice. For too long she’d confused the two.
She cleared her throat.
Mortensen cut his gaze her way. “What is it now, Jensen?”
Else raised a benign smile. “Mrs. Iversen and I have asked to speak with you in private twice today. You promised we could do so by the end of the day. It’s the end of the day.”
Mortensen ran one hand through the sandy waves of his hair. “What do you want me to do, Jensen? Dismiss Wolff? Or abandon him while I attend to you?”
He meant for her to say no to both options, to admit her request was rude, to back away. Else kept her voice steady. “I want to speak to you, and so does Mrs. Iversen.”
“Today,” the secretary said. “And I go home in ten minutes.”
Wolff turned his chair to face the women, scraping wooden legs on the wooden floor. “Pardon me, ladies. But is this something you don’t wish me to hear?”
Else studied the challenging look on the senior physicist’s face. She’d wanted to speak with Mortensen in private so she wouldn’t humiliate him as he’d humiliated her. But if he refused the privacy she offered . . .
“No,” she said. “I don’t mind if you hear.”
“Proceed.” One corner of Wolff’s mouth flicked up.
Mortensen groaned. “Be quick.”
Else met his gaze, determined to confront with strength and compassion, the same way Hemming had confronted her.
One last squeeze to the little dog. “Almost every day, you ask me to perform secretarial tasks, work I’m not trained to do. Meanwhile, Mrs. Iversen’s talents go to waste.”
“I’m bored.” Frustration rose in the secretary’s voice. “I want to do my own work again.”
Mortensen’s face went still. Cold.
Else refused to shiver. “Likewise, you send me on errands, but that’s work for graduate students. We all ran errands as students, and they should pay their dues too. From now on, I will remain in the lab to do the work of an assistant physicist.”
Else clutched the pup to her chest. “Kick him?”
One nod of that beard of gold and red. “What happens?”
How could anyone kick a sweet dog? But Hemming’s gaze didn’t relent, so she needed to answer. “He—he’d yelp. He’d back away.”
“Bite?”
“He might.”
“Is he still a good dog? A friendly dog?”
She studied his face, the sharp nose and the intensity in his deep-set eyes, and she unraveled his meaning. “I—I can’t bite Mortensen.”
Hemming rested tree trunk arms on his knees. “What do you do when he kicks you?”
Assurance stretched her spine. “He wants me to throw a hysterical fit so I’ll lose standing. But I refuse. I hold my tongue.”
“You are silent.”
“Yes.”
He pushed up to standing, a great unfolding of long torso and long limbs. “Sometimes silence takes much courage.”
A grateful smile rose. Yes, it did.
Hemming returned to his chair and picked up wood and knife. “Sometimes silence is nothing but cowardice.”
Else gasped, and the little dog’s ears poked her fingers.
Hemming glanced her way, grunted, and jerked his head to the side. “I’m sorry. That was . . . mean.”
“No, you weren’t mean.” Her mind whirled around his words, around the truth. “I have to figure out which one it is—courage or cowardice.”
“I think you already know,” Laila said in a soft voice.
Else’s eyes slammed shut. She thought she was acting in courage, in humility. But what if failing to confront Mortensen was nothing but cowardice? What if she’d spread false humility over her cowardice—a glossy sheen on an ugly lump of pride?
“I—I’m sorry.” Hemming’s voice sounded strangled.
“Oh, don’t be sorry.” She waited until he met her gaze. “Sometimes telling someone a harsh truth is the kindest thing you can do.”
His expression—she couldn’t decipher it. Shock. Understanding. Disbelief. All in one. As if her words had struck him as hard as his words had struck her.
“I hate seeing you miserable,” Laila said. “It’s getting worse.”
Laila was right. Hemming was right. Nothing would change unless she changed. She gave Laila a feeble smile. “I don’t know how to yelp.”
Laila wrapped her arm around Else’s shoulders. “If I know you, you’ll learn to yelp in a kind and polite manner.”
She leaned into the hug. “You’re a good friend.”
Hemming hunched over, attacking the wood with quick strokes.
She’d never heard so many words from him. He’d spoken with wisdom and strength, and her heart went out to him, not with the silly flutter of a crush, but with warmth for a friend. “Hemming? Thank you.” She pressed the little dog to her heart.
He flicked his gaze to her, then down to his wood. He grunted in masculine embarrassment. “You’re welcome.”
“Let’s practice.” Laila held out her hand. “May I have the dog?”
With a little chuckle, Else handed the pup to her friend.
Laila wiggled the dog as if he were speaking. “Pardon me, Mortensen. You stepped on my tail. Such behavior is unprofessional, unacceptable, and rude. If you do not cease and desist, I shall have no choice but to bite you on the rump.”
A giggle bubbled out. “And that”—Else mimicked Laila’s doggy voice—“would be unpleasant for both of us.”
13
MONDAY, MAY 10, 1943
For the first time in three years, Henrik walked down Bredgade, a few blocks from the family townhouse.
Thank goodness, Far wouldn’t be home. He always worked late.
The flagstones on the sidewalk shone dark from the heavy rains that had kept Henrik from crossing the Øresund the past weekend. But he’d met in the rain at Bøllemosen with the SOE agent, whose code name was Jam, and he’d agreed to this next step.
Men in well-tailored raincoats and expensive hats looked askance at Henrik’s cheap jacket and cap and scruffy beard, so he kept his eyes low.
When he’d learned the meeting place would be in his old neighborhood, he should have refused. Too many people could recognize him. Too many memories.
He could almost hear Far’s rants, as if the words had dissolved into the pavement and now rose with the evaporating rainwater.
Henrik’s hands balled up, but he forced his fingers straight.
Did he want to become more involved with the resistance to bring harm to the Nazis? Or to his father? Because if revenge played any role, he’d back out. He wanted no part of that. He needed to forgive Far—somehow—so he couldn’t indulge in vengeance.
The reports of Nazi atrocities had pushed Henrik over the edge. One could dismiss a single report as sensationalism, but the sheer quantity verified them.
In every occupied country but Denmark, oppressive conditions prevailed. Near-starvation rations. Forced labor. Severe punishments for minor offenses. Trainloads of people disappearing. Not just political prisoners and saboteurs, but ordinary civilians, sent to concentration camps because they were Jewish.
Horrible things happened in those camps. Some reports said a million people had been slaughtered. Men and women and children. Slaughtered.
The Danes needed to fight the Nazis because every decent human being needed to.
Henrik rounded the corner onto Frederiksgade, and the dome of Frederiks Kirke rose before him, the largest church dome in Scandinavia.
Four pillars graced the marble façade, and engraving on the pediment declared, “Herrens ord bliver evindelig”—the Word of the Lord endures forever.
After he removed his cap, Henrik climbed the shallow marble steps and opened the door.
Familiar smells filled his lungs. Every Sunday his family had been in town, Mor had taken him and his sisters to services here. Occasionally Far had joined them.
Henrik passed through purple curtains, drawn back on each side, and entered the circular sanctuary. Light from many windows brightened cold gray marble walls, and paintings of the twelve apostles adorned the inside of the massive dome.
Marmorkirken, the locals called it. Marble Church.
But he hadn’t come to admire the architecture or to remember his mother or even to worship. He’d come to meet a new contact, even more dangerous than exchanging envelopes in Søllerød Kirke.
Four columns of wooden pews filled the circular floor.
In a back pew, Jam sat with his dark head bowed. Toward the front, a handful of people sat praying.
On the far right about halfway up, a sandy-haired man sat. A gray overcoat lay over the back of the pew, draped so that a rolled-up newspaper protruded from the pocket. The signal for Henrik.
No one sat near the man, and no one else had an overcoat over the pew.
Henrik could still say no. He could leave right now and be done.
But he urged his feet onward.
He’d told Jam he would not meet with the contact if he recognized him, so he scrutinized the young man as he approached. His posture, his profile. Nothing triggered a memory.
When he reached the row behind the contact, Henrik dropped his cap. He walked forward a few pews, then checked his hands and returned for his cap, studying the man’s face out of the corner of his eye.
A stranger. Good.
Henrik sat behind the man. With his hands clasped, he lowered his head. “‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul.’” Henrik quoted Hebrews 6:19, announcing his new code name for this scheme—Anker.
“Have we come to a fork in the road?” In a low voice, the contact announced his own code name—Gaffel for fork.
“But which way to turn?” Henrik repeated the code phrase.
Gaffel turned a page in a Bible. “You work at Ahlefeldt’s.”
“What do you want of me?”
“A liaison. We need to recruit and organize there, to find a leader there.”
Henrik knew a leader who was already organizing. “Continue.”
“You would pass messages between the shipyard and our group, deliver materials, coordinate plans with us, arrange training sessions. Not just at your shipyard but at others. Jam said you have contacts.”
Henrik clamped his hands together. He’d already weighed the risks to his life and to his work as the Havmand, risks he was willing to take. The Anker code name would keep his liaison work separate from his courier work to protect the Thorups. “I have contacts.”
“Will you help us?”
“Yes.”
Gaffel slipped a piece of paper over the pew to him. “Instructions for our next meeting. Don’t read it here. Memorize it and burn it.”
Henrik shoved it into his jacket pocket, stood, and put on his cap, the signal to Jam that he’d decided to help. He strode out of the church without meeting the SOE agent’s gaze.
Circling to the rear of the church, he headed toward Store Kongensgade, then down the street past colorful buildings.
Although Henrik had taken on a greater burden, his heart felt lighter. The liaison role felt like a perfectly tailored suit. Leadership fit him.
The lightness puffed out his chest in the cool evening air, but experience clamped an iron belt around that puffery, that self-flattery. Leadership was like fire. In the right hands, it warmed all in range. In the wrong hands, it destroyed everything.
A week ago, he’d feared he’d hurt Else, all but calling her a coward—which he didn’t even believe. Yet she’d welcomed his words.
Henrik turned onto Gothersgade. Why had his harsh words been received? Why had Far’s harsh words been rejected?
The recipient determined much of the reaction. Else’s humble spirit instead of Henrik’s rebellious heart.
But the delivery mattered too. Far had derided Henrik for minor failures such as earning the second-highest mark in class. Far had cared nothing for his son, only for the image his son projected.
Henrik hadn’t derided Else. He’d given her a gift, complimented her virtues, and used a tone both firm and gentle.
“Far and Mor,” he whispered. If he could lead with Far’s decisiveness and Mor’s consideration, he could become the right kind of fire.
In a few minutes he reached the boardinghouse. His mission had cost him his dinner. After work, he’d had to pick up a message at one end of town and meet Gaffel at the other end. Since bicycles were in short supply, he didn’t dare ride his bike without knowing where he could park. And taking the tram cost precious coins. So he’d walked. Now it was almost seven.
Fru Riber had a strict rule that she didn’t feed those who missed dinner. At least she always had a loaf of bread in the kitchen.
Henrik climbed the stairs to the common area. Fru Riber would have retreated to her quarters, far from the chatter of the boarders.
In the living room, four students sat at the round table playing cards, and Else sat on a sofa by the stove.
She stood and smiled at him. “There you are, Hemming. I kept a plate for you.”
He stopped halfway to the kitchen. “You did?”
Else breezed past him into the dining room. “I figured you must have had to work late.”
Henrik followed her into the kitchen, his jaw dangling.
Else opened the oven door. “I reminded Fru Riber you aren’t an inconsiderate student, and she’d already prepared the food. Why waste it? She let me save a plate for you.”
Henrik had many things to say, watching her bustle around. For him. But all he could say was “Tak.”
A pretty shade of pink colored her cheeks as she passed him carrying a plate brimming with cod and potatoes. “She also served parsnips, but I’ve noticed you never take them.”
He hated parsnips. She’d noticed? “Tak.”
Else set the plate at Henrik’s place, rounded the table, and stood behind the chair across from his. “I can stay if you’d like company. Or . . .”
Henrik gripped the chairback, and his mouth opened to tell her he didn’t mind eating alone. But he did mind. He motioned to her chair.
She took her seat, beaming as if he’d given her a gift, not the other way around.
He reminded himself to sit like an oaf not a gentleman. Something about Else always made him forget to not use his manners.
Henrik bowed his head, silently said grace, then went to work on the cod.
Else wore a dark blue blouse with white dots, professional but feminine. “Thank you for letting me stay. Laila’s sleeping off a migraine—a headache. She needs dark and quiet, so I’m down here alone.”
Henrik glanced through the door into the living room, where the students roared in laughter over their card game. He smiled at Else. “Yes. Alone.”
“How was work?” she asked. “Are you building a ship?”
He had to smile. “Yes.”
She turned her head to the side and laughed, a charming sound. The week before, he’d opened the door to this tentative friendship. He ought to slam it shut against the dangers of openness and attraction.
How could he with those blue eyes dancing in amusement?
Else leaned forward, her face bright. “Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Day?”
“I’m going to yelp.”
At Mortensen. “Good.” He took a bite of creamed potatoes, fragrant with rosemary and nutmeg.
“I’ve decided what to say, and I practiced with Laila. Mortensen’s secretary will come with me. She has things to say too.”
Courage was contagious. He rearranged the words into Hemming’s vocabulary. “You are brave. Now she is brave.”
“Do you think so?” Her eyes darted back and forth as if pondering, and her mouth curved into a teasing smile. “I haven’t talked to him yet.”
“You will.” He spoke with conviction.
Her smile stretched wider, but then a shadow darkened her pretty eyes. “Would you—would you pray for me tomorrow?”
All day he would. While building ships all day, he would.
He gave her a brusque nod, then a little smile to erase the brusqueness. “Yes.”
14
TUESDAY, MAY 11, 1943
The clock in Mrs. Iversen’s office ticked in time with Else’s heart. It was almost four thirty, almost time to leave, and she still hadn’t spoken to Mortensen.
Twice, she and Mrs. Iversen had approached him. Twice, he’d been deep in discussion with Jørgen Wolff. Twice, Mortensen had shooed them away.
Else’s fingers tapped together in a frenetic rhythm. She’d told Laila and Hemming today was the day. She couldn’t go home in failure. “One more try?”
Mrs. Iversen shook her shoulders straight, making the rest of her jiggle. “This time the snake will not escape our grasp.”
Else worked up a smile for the older woman. Their allegiance not only provided support but added moral heft to their arguments.
She grasped the doorknob, and a quiver ruffled her throat. Every time she’d confronted someone, she’d lost something dear. If she confronted Mortensen, she could lose her position at the institute. But she could also lose her position if her career slowly withered due to silence.
Else opened the door. At the far end of the laboratory, Mortensen and Wolff sat before a blackboard covered with tempting equations and diagrams.
The first time Else had come to confront Mortensen, he’d been asking Wolff about methods to separate isotopes of large atoms. He hadn’t mentioned uranium, but he didn’t have to. If the unstable U-235 isotope could be separated out of uranium ore, the applications for energy would be enormous. And for weaponry.
Wolff had adamantly shut down that line of discussion.
And Else couldn’t let even physics distract her now.
As she marched, she dug her hand into her lab coat pocket and wrapped her fingers around the warm wood of the little dog from Hemming. His promise to pray infused more strength into her.
About six feet from the physicists, Else stopped, and Mrs. Iversen drew up beside her. Wolff smiled at them, but Mortensen kept talking.
Time to yelp. Else was done being nice to Mortensen. She’d continue to be kind, but not nice. For too long she’d confused the two.
She cleared her throat.
Mortensen cut his gaze her way. “What is it now, Jensen?”
Else raised a benign smile. “Mrs. Iversen and I have asked to speak with you in private twice today. You promised we could do so by the end of the day. It’s the end of the day.”
Mortensen ran one hand through the sandy waves of his hair. “What do you want me to do, Jensen? Dismiss Wolff? Or abandon him while I attend to you?”
He meant for her to say no to both options, to admit her request was rude, to back away. Else kept her voice steady. “I want to speak to you, and so does Mrs. Iversen.”
“Today,” the secretary said. “And I go home in ten minutes.”
Wolff turned his chair to face the women, scraping wooden legs on the wooden floor. “Pardon me, ladies. But is this something you don’t wish me to hear?”
Else studied the challenging look on the senior physicist’s face. She’d wanted to speak with Mortensen in private so she wouldn’t humiliate him as he’d humiliated her. But if he refused the privacy she offered . . .
“No,” she said. “I don’t mind if you hear.”
“Proceed.” One corner of Wolff’s mouth flicked up.
Mortensen groaned. “Be quick.”
Else met his gaze, determined to confront with strength and compassion, the same way Hemming had confronted her.
One last squeeze to the little dog. “Almost every day, you ask me to perform secretarial tasks, work I’m not trained to do. Meanwhile, Mrs. Iversen’s talents go to waste.”
“I’m bored.” Frustration rose in the secretary’s voice. “I want to do my own work again.”
Mortensen’s face went still. Cold.
Else refused to shiver. “Likewise, you send me on errands, but that’s work for graduate students. We all ran errands as students, and they should pay their dues too. From now on, I will remain in the lab to do the work of an assistant physicist.”
