“Nothing.” Janne scooped up the paper, darted to the stove,and stashed the paper on a shelf. “Would you like tea? Thorvald likes coffee, but I like tea.”
Else and Laila exchanged a glance. Something was wrong.
“You seem upset,” Else said in a soft voice.
With teapot in hand, Janne returned to the table and began pouring. “I’m sad to leave. And we’re leaving tonight, no matter what. We’ll pay that fisherman every krone in the account if we must.”
Else twisted her fingers together tight in her lap. “We can’t leave without Hemming.”
The stream of tea wiggled and missed Else’s cup. Janne’s face crumpled.
Laila dashed from the table and grabbed the paper from the shelf.
Janne stretched out her hand. “Laila, don’t!”
No. No. No. Else’s fingers ached from twisting.
The paper sank low, and Laila met Else’s gaze, her lower lip pulsing with unspoken words.
“No.” Else’s voice came out insistent. Strident. He couldn’t be. He couldn’t. “No.”
Janne sat beside her and gripped her hand. “I’m sorry, Else.”
Laila swayed back and forth. “They arrested Hemming Andersen yesterday for sabotage. At the boardinghouse.”
A scythe carved into Else’s chest, carved where her heart used to be, and some strange cry tumbled out of the void.
Hemming was in prison. He’d be tortured—was being tortured at that very moment. He’d be executed.
“Oh, Else.” Laila sank into the chair across from her. “Hemming...”
Janne sobbed and covered her mouth with her free hand.
They offered no words of consolation.
There were none to offer.
45
COPENHAGEN
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER13, 1943
Henrik had three years’ experience keeping silent. It came in handy now.
The Gestapo had tied his elbows hard behind him, wrenching his shoulders, and they’d hooked the rope to the wall. Each time they struck him, his arms threatened to rip out of his shoulder sockets.
Henrik leaned forward to catch his breath and ease the pressure on his shoulders.
“Who are you working with?” The Gestapo goon’s black boots shifted before Henrik, splattered with blood, some of it Henrik’s. “Are you with BOPA? Holger Danske?”
Henrik didn’t lift his head. So far he’d told them only his name, address, and former place of employment.
Tell them only what they already knew.
The slap stung Henrik’s bruised cheek, spun his head to the side, yanked his shoulders. He bit back a cry.
After his arrest, Henrik had been registered at the Danish prison of Vestre Fængsel, then taken to Dagmarhus for interrogation. He had no idea how long he’d been there.
