1940
1
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
TUESDAY, APRIL9, 1940
The sun rose on the first day of another year in the wasted life of Baron Henrik Ahlefeldt.
Henrik stopped outside his family’s night-darkened home on Bredgade.
“Thirty. I’m thirty,” he murmured to Svend Østergaard, who was the kind of friend willing to endure Henrik’s crowd of dissolute aristocrats to celebrate his birthday, the kind of friend who understood what Henrik couldn’t voice.
By thirty he’d planned to have Olympic gold, a seat in parliament, and a wife as brilliant and sweet as his own dear mother, God rest her soul.
Instead his nostrils stung from the Danish tradition of tossing pepper at bachelors on their thirtieth birthdays.
“It isn’t too late, Henning,” Svend said. “I’ve never known anyone with so much—”
“Don’t say it.” Henrik raised one hand to block the hated word. “The only standard I’ve ever met is wasting my potential. And that standard I’ve surpassed most exceedingly.”
Svend loosed a sigh into the dawn chill. “You think you’re punishing your father, but you’re only punishing yourself.”
Henrik winced and restrained his fists. He’d known Svend sincetheir first day at Latin school. As the only person in his life who spoke both honestly and kindly, Svend deserved to have his say.
A strange sound arose about a block over. A faint, rhythmic pounding. Like feet, lots of feet, marching in unison.
“What is—”
Pops rang out—sharp and cracking. Like fireworks. Or ... gunfire?
Svend let out a strangled cry. “The Germans.”
Henrik’s eyes strained in the pale light. For months, Svend had ranted about how the Nazis would someday invade Norway to protect their shipping route for Swedish iron ore.
And tiny neutral Denmark stood in the way.
More shots.
“Come on!” Henrik ran toward the sound, toward Frederiksgade, which ran to Amalienborg Palace, home of King Christian X.
Svend ran beside him. “Our army...”
Curses filled Henrik’s head. Small and poorly equipped, the Danish Army didn’t stand a chance against the German Wehrmacht.
He rounded the corner onto Frederiksgade. A block ahead, men in uniform filled Amalienborg Square. Not the scarlet coats of the Royal Life Guards. German uniforms.
“Stop!” Svend grabbed Henrik’s arm. “We can’t help.”
Henrik shook off his friend and kept running. This was his country. His king.
“Henning! You’re one man.”
He skidded to a stop. One man. Unarmed. His heart and his shoulders slumped.
“I—I need to leave.” Svend looked ill, although he hadn’t had a drop to drink all night.
With a sigh, Henrik gestured back the way they’d come. “Let’s get you home.”
