Thorup’s hand stilled on the prow of the scull. “Whether we use the household account or the account in Sweden, the source is the same.”
“How?” His funds in Sweden came from the Allies, the SOE, some group Svend refused to name.
Thorup pushed himself to standing. “When we opened the house to refugees, I visited your father in the city. He needed to know what we were doing.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
Thorup groaned and faced him. “He doesn’t know you’re involved. But he supports what we’re doing. He’s kept the household account full. Tens of thousands of kroner.”
Henrik’s mind spun, and he braced one hand on the wall. “My father?”
“Your father.”
The man Henrik had written off as heartless and callous? He rubbed his hand over his mouth, and his balaclava and his opinions shifted under the pressure.
Thorup cleared his throat. “When you say you’re like your father, you’re not always wrong.”
Henrik squeezed his eyes shut, then gave a brisk nod. “Let’s go.” He lifted the bow of the scull.
After Thorup lifted the stern, they headed to the door.
“Wait.” Henrik paused at the doorway. “You said the Swedish account came from the same source.”
Thorup’s gaze softened. “Your father set it up.”
“No. Svend said—”
“Svend knew you’d never use the funds if you knew where they came from.”
“My father?” Henrik’s voice cracked. “He—when—I don’t understand.”
“He opened the account after he read your note saying you’d left for Sweden. Every month he adds funds. He doesn’t know you don’t use it.”
“He—but—” Henrik’s free hand bounced up and down in the air, fingers splayed as if grasping for understanding. “But he thinks I’m—he’s sending money to me? To me as I was three years ago?”
Sympathy turned down the corners of Thorup’s eyes. “Yes.”
Henrik’s end of the boat thumped to the floor, and he covered his face, kneading his forehead with his gloved fingertips. Far sent money to his rebellious son? To support his carousing ways? “Why? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Duty? Regret? Guilt? Love?”
For the first time since Mor died—really since the boat raceon the lake—Henrik wanted to find his father, embrace him, and sob into his neck.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER10, 1943
Despite the library’s warm ambience, Henrik felt chilled and tense. He perused the shelves, but the titles scattered between eye and brain.
Else entered, wearing the same suit she’d worn to church, in Royal Copenhagen blue.
“Close the door,” he said.
“Gladly.” She leaned back against the door with her arms tucked behind her back. Her unbuttoned suit jacket gapped open over a creamy blouse, and he wanted to burrow his arms under that jacket and around her waist and kiss her senseless.
Considering what he had to tell her, that wouldn’t be fair.
Her lips puckered in a little frown. “What’s wrong?”
Henrik patted the back of an armchair. “Sit down, min elskede.”
