Annika clutched at her collar. “The Gestapo—they came for her yesterday.”
A strangled cry escaped. “Arrested?”
“She ran out the back door and escaped. They came back and did this.” She gestured to Else’s room.
Henrik dug his fingers deep into his hair. Where had she gone? Was she hiding? Or had they found her?
“We’re all moving out.” Annika glowered toward the stairwell. “I’m the last one, and I’m packing right now. Fru Riber’s a stikker. She called the Gestapo on Else.”
The Gestapo. They were hunting for Else, and he slapped his hand against the wall. Hard.
“And on you.” Annika turned back to him, her face stark, and she gasped. “Fru Riber thinks you’re a saboteur, a communist. The Gestapo—they ransacked your room too.”
His gaze flew up as if he could see his room, his belongings—now in Gestapo hands.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Annika cried. “They might be watching the house.”
Henrik muffled a curse. Of course they would be. “Tak,” he said to Annika.
He ran for the stairs, took them two at a time, three, jolting his knees.
He rounded the final landing.
Three men in plain clothes stood on the ground floor, pointing guns at him. “Hemming Andersen, you’re under arrest.”
A feminine scream above. “Run!”
Henrik clutched the banister. He could vault over, run out the back.
They’d shoot. They’d chase him and shoot.
They might hit Annika. Or a bystander on the street.
His gut caved in.
No escape. No hope.
As if moving through mud, his hands slowly rose.
VEDBÆK
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER13, 1943
Else’s feet felt wooden as she and Laila descended the stairs for late-morning coffee. Hemming hadn’t come home last night. Or this morning. “It’s my fault he isn’t here. If I hadn’t hidden, if I’d come here that night—”
“Could you have?” Laila lifted one eyebrow. “It took time to come up with your disguise and your plan. And your route took two hours. You couldn’t have made it here before curfew. Not without being caught. Don’t be hard on yourself.”
Else groaned and nodded, but every passing minute deepened her worry.
Quiet, nervous conversation rose from the study. The four refugees who had boarded a boat on Monday returned an hour later after the fisherman refused to cross in rising winds. And on Tuesday, even higher winds had canceled another crossing.
In the kitchen, Janne sat at the table, bent over a newspaper with her head in her hands.
Laila pulled out a chair. “Where’s Thorvald? He never misses coffee.”
Janne jerked up her head, her eyes glassy red. “Oh!” She crossed her forearms over the paper and pulled it closer. “Thorvald? He—he went to the city. One last piece of business.”
She’d been crying, and Else set her hand on Janne’s forearm. “What’s wrong?”
