“Thousand thanks,” Henrik said to the captain. “Smooth sailing.”
He vaulted down to the pier. This captain, after his first uneventful crossing, had lowered his price to one thousand kroner per person.
Else entwined her hand in Henrik’s. “I pray they’ll be safe.”
“I do too.” From what he could determine, several thousand Jews had crossed. He’d heard strange reports from the refugees of German soldiers looking the other way as they traveled to the coast, and he hadn’t seen boats or aircraft patrolling the Sound. It defied logic.
However, the Gestapo chief of security police in Helsingør hunted the coast mercilessly. He’d arrested a dozen fishermen in Snekkersten for ferrying Jews, and he’d arrested over a hundred Jews in Gilleleje, most of them found hiding in the village church. That raid violated the ancient tradition of sanctuary, yet another transgression to add to the Nazis’ putrid pile.
After the fishing boat chugged away, Henrik and Else entered the boathouse, where Thorup was preparing the scull for Henrik’s Havmand run. After sunset, they’d brought the scull down from the drawing room.
Else sat on a crate while Henrik secured the lockbox and readied his supplies. Already wearing his black overcoat, trousers, and gloves, he pulled on his balaclava.
“Are you leaving now?” Else asked.
“Yes. All is ready.”
A tiny smile played as she came to him. “I’ve never kissed the Havmand.” And she pressed a kiss to his knit-covered mouth.
“That’s not fair.” He tugged down the balaclava and kissed her back, short but far more satisfying.
She popped the knit back over his nose. “I love you, Hemming-Henrik-Havmand. Godspeed.”
“Good night, min elskede.” He walked her to the back door and watched her dark silhouette dim in the night.
“How much longer?” Thorup asked.
Henrik’s sigh drifted after the woman he loved. “Tuesday.”
At the Freedom Council meeting earlier in the week, Erling Foss told him his safehouse was arranged at another seaside home. Henrik would row his scull there on Tuesday night and lie low until he obtained papers for his new identity.
Thorup grunted. “So we can send two more groups.”
Henrik shut the door. “You’ll be on the last boat on Monday night. I refuse to go underground until I know you’re safe.”
“We’ll be ready. I wish I could let the baron know we’re abandoning the house, but I understand the need for secrecy.”
Henrik suppressed a scoffing noise. Far was the least of his worries.
Thorup rubbed a spot on the scull, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Have you told Else?”
“Tomorrow.” Dread of that conversation pressed on him.
“It’s time to finish operations here anyway.”
Henrik frowned. “Running out of money?”
“Running out of passengers.” Thorup angled his back to Henrik, far too interested in the smudge.
Thorup had evaded talk of finances for too long. “We’ve fed and supplied so many people, paid for so many passages. Funds must be low.”
“We’re fine.”
Stubborn Dane. “I have a bank account in Sweden. I’ve never used it, but it’s there. I can replenish the household account.”
“Not necessary.”
Henrik planted his hands on his hips and huffed. “Impossible.”
