Organ music resonated off the whitewashed Gothic arches as Else sang the closing hymn.
Since the twelfth century, Christians had worshipped at Søllerød Kirke, and Else loved the connection to history missing in her California church, especially as her grandparents’ voices blended with her own.
The altarpiece rose before her, carved and painted and gilded with gold, surrounding a painting of Jesus holding the Bible, his hand raised in blessing.
For the past few weeks, Farfar and Farmor had insisted Else stay safe and warm in Copenhagen as winds howled and rains fell. She’d missed cookingæbleskiverwith Farmor and listening to Farfar’s jokes.
The parish pastor, Søren Sparsø, stood at the pulpit in his black robes and traditional Danish white ruffed collar, which reminded Else of Shakespeare. The pastor said the benediction and dismissed the congregation.
With his hat in hand, Farfar stepped into the aisle.
Farmor led the way out, a dark blue hat topping her silver chignon, and she chatted to friends along the way.
Near the back of the sanctuary, a man remained seated, a largeman with his bearded head bowed in prayer. Beards were rarely worn in Denmark, usually by Orthodox Jews, according to Laila. The man looked like ... “Hemming? Hemming Andersen?”
His head jerked up, and he bolted to his feet. “Frue Jensen.”
“Call me Else.” She smiled to soothe his rattled expression. “I’m surprised to see you all the way out in Søllerød.”
Hemming’s face went blank. He blinked. “My aunt and uncle live nearby. Every week I help them.”
“How sweet of you.”
He ducked his head in his bashful way. “Nej.”
“You said they live nearby. Whereabouts?”
A pause. “Not far.” His gaze flew to her grandparents.
How rude of her not to make introductions. “Farfar and Farmor, let me introduce you to Hemming Andersen from my boardinghouse. Hemming, these are my grandparents, Herre and Fru Jensen.”
“I am glad to meet you, Herre and Fru.”
“We are glad to meet you too.” But Farfar’s words stood stiff.
Farmor squeezed Else’s arm. “Ready to make lunch?”
“I am.” She smiled at Hemming.“Farvel.”
“Farvel.” He sat and bowed his head again.
Under a partly cloudy sky, the Jensens passed through manicured hedges in the churchyard.
“That man lives in your boardinghouse?” Farmor asked.
“He moved in about a month ago.”
Farfar grunted. “He’s attended here the last few years, but he isn’t the ... sort we see here.”
No, he wasn’t. Søllerød attracted wealthy Copenhageners with weekend homes.
“What does he do?” Farfar asked.
“He works at a shipyard.”
Farmor’s gray eyebrows bunched together. “I thought you lived with students.”
Else hooked her arm through her grandmother’s. “Don’t worry. He isn’t trying to recruit me into the Communist Party.”
