The Sound of Light, page 9
With a shudder, Else glanced behind her. Half a block back, an elderly woman carried a basket. Probably not Gestapo.
But the Gestapo had come to town. They’d moved in to Dagmarhus, joining the German administrators. Right above Mr. Staffeldt’s charming bookstore.
At an intersection, Laila stopped her bike and planted her feet on both sides.
Else did the same, waiting for the tan-colored tram to pass on its tracks, guided by humming electrical wires.
“Are you sure?” Laila asked, her tone light, as if chatting about the movie they were supposed to watch.
Else stroked the little dog in her coat pocket. In their loyalty, dogs protected their homes. Else’s home of Denmark had been occupied, and her home of America was at war. Else could at least bark. “I’m absolutely sure.”
“You’re willing to do something wrong to do something right?”
“I’m willing to do something right. Telling the truth is right.”
Laila sent her a smile, her dark curls swinging under her brown hat, and she pedaled across the street. “Do I have Mortensen to thank for this?”
“Ironically, yes.” Else pulled up alongside her friend.
“I haven’t heard you grumble his name for days.”
Over a week. “My plan is working. I delegate the secretarial work and errands, and I’m busy in the lab.”
“And on the mimeograph machine.”
Mortensen always handed her papers to copy at inopportune times, still trying to expel her from the lab. But she and Mrs. Iversen had discussed ways to iron out that wrinkle.
Laila turned down a narrow street. “The lab must be more peaceful.”
“Oh no. I’ve wounded his pride, and he can’t bear it.” A herd of bicycles approached, and she eased her bike closer to the curb.
“He has no choice. You were right, you caught him in a lie, and you have two witnesses.”
Else smiled. He had to be kicking himself that he hadn’t accepted her offer of privacy.
After more turns than Else could count, they arrived at an apartment building near the university. They left their bikes in the lobby, and Laila led Else up several flights of stairs.
Else’s heart rate skittered. Printing an illegal paper could lead to arrest and imprisonment. Since Denmark had abolished the death penalty in 1930, the Danish government didn’t allow the Germans to execute members of the resistance, but people had been killed in roundups.
Else set her chin, and Hemming’s voice rumbled in her head—“Next time you will be brave earlier.”
Laila led her down a dimly lit hallway. “Be like the Havmand,” she whispered.
“I have no intention of swimming the Øresund.”
“Some say he rows.”
That made more sense. “I have no intention of rowing either. But I can print.” If the Havmand could risk his life to spread information, so could she.
With a furtive look in both directions, Laila knocked six times.
A young man opened the door. Wavy brown hair swept back from his high forehead, and he ushered them in.
The tiny apartment was full—four people, two duplicating machines, and two typewriters, all in action.
“This is my friend,” Laila said. “She can print copies.”
“Good evening.” Else had been warned that no names would be used.
“Thank you,” a blond in her twenties said around the pencil between her teeth, barely glancing up from her typing.
Laila had told her how stories came in by courier. Some were written by reporters from the legal newspapers, who sent articles not allowed in their publications. Others came from government officials or business owners. Some were transcribed from BBC broadcasts.
Laila motioned to the typewriters. “We type up the stencils here. That’s my job. We run some copies here, others at locations around the city. Then we send them out to be distributed.”
The blond headed to a mimeograph machine, and Else stepped aside to let her pass.
“I’ll bring you the typed stencils.” Laila held up a blank stencil, waxy and translucent. “Each is good for about two hundred copies.”
The fellow who’d answered the door tapped a stack of papers on the desk to straighten them. “Stencils are hard to buy, so make as many copies as possible from each. Keep going until the copies are illegible. And they’re fragile, so treat them with care.”
“I know.” She’d torn several at the institute.
“Do you have nail polish?”
“I think so. Yes, I do.” Nail polish rarely lasted in the lab, so she only wore it for special occasions. “Why?”
He gestured to a little red bottle on the table. “It mends tears in stencils.”
“How clever.”
“We’ll send you paper and ink whenever possible.” He set the stack of papers on top of a staggered pile.
“Thank you. I have permission to use supplies at—” She choked off the revealing detail. “But I’d prefer not to.” Whoever ordered supplies might become suspicious of a sudden rise in the use of paper and ink. That person’s loyalties might not lie with the resistance.
The young man reached into the pocket of trousers too roomy for his skinny form, and he held up a slip of paper. “Here’s the information on where to take the printed papers and how to contact your cut-out. Read it now, memorize it, and burn it here. Don’t show it to anyone, even her.” He nodded at Laila.
Else looked at Laila with surprise, but her roommate nodded. If Laila were arrested and interrogated, Else’s contact—her “cut-out”—could be compromised too. “I see.” Else’s voice sounded thin.
The man’s hazel eyes grew intense. “The delivery is the most dangerous part of your job. You must be vigilant without looking vigilant. You must suspect everyone without looking suspicious. If anything feels wrong, do not make the drop.”
Else’s throat tightened, but she shoved out her words. “I understand.”
“Everything must be perfect—the location, the code phrases, the person. If anything violates protocol, do not make the drop. Tell your friend, and we’ll investigate.”
“All right.”
He held up an ink-stained finger. “Don’t ever forget, your cut-out will also be vigilant and suspicious. Don’t lead an informer to your cut-out. Don’t make a mistake in your codes. We will not tolerate sloppiness or recklessness.”
Her fingers worried the strap of her purse. “I won’t let you down.”
“Can we trust you?”
Laila huffed. “I wouldn’t have recommended her if—”
“Can we trust you?” His gaze pierced Else, as if probing her character, courage, and loyalty. “Not just that you won’t betray us, but that you won’t do something stupid that will get us all arrested.”
“You can trust me.” Else spoke with more conviction than she felt, but as she spoke, the conviction of her words filled her heart.
“Good.” He held out the slip of paper.
Although her fingers quivered, she wrapped them around the note.
Brave earlier.
17
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9, 1943
In the shipyard canteen, Ove Nyholm reached the punchline of his joke. Henrik took a bite of his smørrebrød so he wouldn’t laugh too soon. Nyholm had started on Koppel’s crew on Monday, and his friendly and boisterous ways made him popular.
When the men laughed, Henrik waited a beat, swallowed, and joined in.
“Who wants to join me for a beer tonight?” Nyholm’s grin rearranged his ample freckles.
“I’ll come.” Tom Rasmussen elbowed Nyholm. “I’ll bring a baby bottle for you.”
All of eighteen years old, Nyholm took the teasing with a laugh. “I’ll drink you under the table. Who else is coming?”
Half accepted, half declined, and Henrik picked at his sandwich.
“How about you, Andersen?”
Henrik popped a herring into his mouth and shook his head.
“You’re married?”
“Nej.”
“Got a girl?”
“Nej.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t like girls?”
Henrik pinned the man with the look he’d used to intimidate opponents when rowing crew. “I like women.”
Nyholm flipped up both hands. “No harm meant. So what do you do at night? Just go home?”
“I like quiet.”
Nyholm nudged Rasmussen. “Then he certainly doesn’t want a wife.”
Some laughed. Some didn’t. And Henrik closed his eyes to conceal the rolling.
Nyholm was mistaken not only about marriage but about Henrik.
He did want a wife.
Some evenings he could imagine what it might be like. The evenings he came home late and found Else had saved a plate for him. She’d also been working late recently and often ate with him. Sometimes Laila joined them.
Else would chat about interesting topics in simple speech, ask questions of Henrik, and wait patiently for him to formulate his reply.
He craved the evenings with her. Dreaded them. Longed to be known. Feared being known.
Thoughts of Else filled his journal more each day, filled his head. He’d been in love once, long ago, but this felt more intense. Yet he, as Henrik, had never conversed with her. She knew nothing about him. Which was how it had to be.
After lunch, he and his coworkers went back to the shipways, where they were building temporary scaffolding inside the hull of a cargo ship.
In the warm sunshine, Henrik rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows and climbed up the exterior scaffolding, then down inside the hull.
Gunnar Skov picked up an electric drill. Instead of heading toward the scaffolding, he squatted close to the hull. He craned his neck around, caught Henrik’s eye, and gave him a mischievous look. Then he fired up the drill and aimed for the hull.
Steam filled Henrik’s chest and billowed in his head. He barged forward and grabbed Skov’s arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He heard his father in his disgusted fury, saw his own young self in Skov’s wide eyes.
The shock of it slammed Henrik in the gut, and he dropped Skov’s arm—but not the question. “What are you doing?”
Skov beckoned Henrik down to his level, and Henrik squatted.
A lock of dirty blond hair hung on Skov’s forehead. “I’m drilling a hole so the ship will sink.”
What on earth was he thinking? “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
Henrik fought the billowing steam. “The inspector will see it.”
Skov’s cheeks reddened. “We’re supposed to commit sabotage. They keep saying they’ll give us supplies, but they don’t. I’ll just do it myself.” His voice hissed out.
“You will not.” He understood Skov’s frustration. The SOE promised more than they delivered. Although Henrik had organized crews at several shipyards, no one had been trained or equipped. “You’ll be kicked out of the group.”
Skov’s nostrils flared. “You’re not the boss. Koppel is.”
Henrik had more authority than that, but at Ahlefeldt’s, only Koppel knew Henrik was the liaison. “If Koppel saw, he’d kick you off. Wait. Do it carefully, do it well, do it right.”
Skov hefted the drill in his hand, then set it down. “I liked it better when you didn’t talk.”
So did Henrik. He pushed up to standing and left Skov behind. Silence ensured secrecy. Silence prevented harsh words like the ones he’d directed at Skov.
Leadership required speech, but good leadership required good speech. A rueful smile rose. “Speak carefully. Speak well. Speak right.”
“Andersen!” Anton Blom leaned over the side of the hull. “Koppel wants to talk to you, down by the carpenter shop.”
Henrik raised a hand in acknowledgment and climbed out.
Down on the ground, Koppel stood talking to his boss, Herre Poulsen.
Holding a clipboard, Poulsen eyed Henrik. “So this is the man you recommended.”
Henrik’s stomach clenched. He needed anonymity, not recognition.
Koppel gave Henrik a partial smile. “Yes. He’s quiet, but he works hard and the men respect him. He’s your man.”
“Good news, Andersen.” Poulsen beamed at him with crooked teeth. “You’re promoted to crew chief.”
He’d rather hear he was fired. “No. I—Koppel’s the crew chief.”
“Time for you to have your own crew.” Still he beamed.
Henrik’s breath hopped around, and he fought the panicky sensation. This was one of the reasons he’d hidden his intelligence. “I don’t want it.”
Poulsen’s chin drew back. “You’ll have more responsibility, and it pays more. You’ll like that.”
“I don’t want it.”
Koppel cocked his head to the side. “Why not?”
More reasons than he could list. How often had he seen Koppel talking to managers, men who might recognize Henrik from his years in the business offices? Henrik would also have to speak more. And power—he could only drink it in tiny swallows.
He shook his head. “I am not—smart enough.”
“You’re smarter than you think,” Koppel said.
Later he’d tell Koppel the position would interfere with his liaison work. For now, he’d keep repeating himself. “I don’t want it.”
Koppel sighed and shrugged at Poulsen. “Sorry.”
“I am too.” Poulsen sniffed in disdain. “Back to work, Andersen.”
“Tak.” Henrik marched toward the ship up on the ways, supported by a network of wooden beams.
“Anyone else on your crew?” Poulsen asked Koppel.
“No. How about Hansen’s crew?”
“I’ll ask—oh! Baron Ahlefeldt!”
Henrik’s heart jammed into his throat. His father?
He started to glance back, spun away, crouched low, his back to the men, his head down, as if working on the scaffolding. Far never came to the ways. Why now?
“Good day. Poulsen, isn’t it?” Far’s voice slunk into Henrik’s ears, loosing hundreds of memories. “How is everything down here?”
Henrik clutched a rough wooden crossbar. Since when did Far care about men so low in the company hierarchy?
“One of my crew chiefs retired,” Poulsen said. “I need to replace him, but the man we picked turned the job down.”
“Turned down a promotion?” Disbelief shaded Far’s voice. “Why?”
“He’s capable,” Koppel said, “but he underestimates his abilities.”
“Isn’t that the way of things?” Far said. “Too many men underestimate their potential, overestimate it, or . . .”
Henrik’s shoulders hunched toward his ears, but his mind filled in the missing words. Or fail to fulfill it.
“Never mind.” Far’s voice rose in that way of his. Shoving away failure and those who failed. “You’ll find someone more deserving. I came to check on the progress of the ship on Way Three. My manager mentioned a problem, and I wanted to see.”
“Of course. Come with me, sir.”
Footsteps shuffled away.
Henrik tugged his cap low and peeked around his shoulder.
Far walked away with the same rower’s build he’d passed to his son but softened by age. His dark blue suit fit perfectly, and his black homburg sat squarely over his fair hair.
Henrik rose to standing. For the first time in over three years, he saw his father.
Everything tumbled around inside. The burn of anger. The juvenile pleasure of knowing Far would be appalled to see his heir working as a common laborer.
And something he’d never expected and didn’t know how to handle, something that pulled at him and urged him to run to the man who’d raised him.
The man who had spurned him for his failures but also told heroic tales while little Henning sat on his knee. The voice that hurled insults but also rose in laughter at childish antics. The hands that clenched in fury but also patiently, lovingly trained him to row and to row well.
For his first fourteen years, Henrik had wanted to please his father, not just because he’d been in awe of him but because he’d loved him.
He still did.
And that shattered him.
18
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 23, 1943
Else’s chalk flew across the chalkboard, formulae spilling into formulae spilling into formulae.
The graduate students tossed out suggestions, and the solution to the problem cascaded down the board.
Her nerves tingled and her mind danced. Moments like this were why she’d chosen a career in physics.
That morning the idea had germinated. Mortensen had dismissed it as stupid, but the idea pressed against the starting gates in her mind.
As soon as Mortensen left for a meeting, Else picked up the chalk, and her idea raced down the track, gaining speed with each turn. Soon the frenzied scratch of chalk on slate had attracted the graduate students.
“Jensen.” Mortensen’s voice and footsteps assaulted her ears. “I need copies.”
“Just . . . a . . . Gebhardt, you were saying?”
“Planck’s constant,” Manfred Gebhardt said in his German accent.
“Of course.” She plugged in Planck’s constant and beamed at the answer. She’d done it.
“I need copies.”
Else’s shoulders stiffened, but she sent the man a benign smile. “I’ll make them at the end of the day as always.” Her policy allowed her to stay in the lab all day and to print Frit Danmark after most of the staff had left.
Mortensen huffed. “Now, Jensen.”
Two temptations battled—to protest in a peevish manner and to be nice and give in. Both were wrong.
She tented her eyebrows. “When Wolff told me how disappointed you were that I was always away running your errands, I vowed I’d never let that happen again. And if I left now, I couldn’t put the finishing touches on this.” She swept her arm toward the chalkboard.
“Jensen solved it.” Kaj Knudsen’s oversized eyes stretched wide in his round face. “For over a month, we’ve puzzled over it, and Jensen solved it.”
Else’s cheeks warmed. “We solved it as a team.”
Knudsen shook his head. “It was her idea.”
