Else exchanged a relieved look with Laila. She swung her briefcase behind her and climbed the rope ladder.
The smells of fish and motor oil merged in an unpleasant combination.
A crewman pointed to the hatch, where a rope ladder dangled. “Need help, Frue?”
“I can do it.” Else crouched and poked her leg around until her foot found a rung. Not very ladylike, but she made her way down.
The other passengers followed, then the crewman handed down their suitcases.
A few cots and blankets ringed the dark space, and Else and Laila sat on a cot.
The crewman squatted by the hatch. “Not a sound until the captain says. No smoking, no lights. If the motor cuts or if we stomp on the hatch twice, stay completely still. When it’s safe, we’ll let you on deck. Understood?”
“Ja,” came from every mouth. They all knew what was at stake.
The hatch banged shut, and darkness filled the hold.
One of the women let out a tiny whimper, and her husband shushed her.
Else leaned back against the wall with her briefcase on her lap. She unlatched it and worked her fingers inside and around the smooth leather of Hemming’s journal.
The boat’s motor chugged, rumbling through Else’s body.
A sob gurgled in her throat, and she swallowed it hard. With her eyes shut tight, she prayed for Hemming’s life and his freedom. But something about the prayer didn’t sit right.
Another prayer formed in her mind, and she fought it back, squirmed. She couldn’t.
But she must.
She released the prayer, released the man she loved, praying he’d have strength and peace in his final moments.
It broke her.
46
COPENHAGEN
THURSDAY, OCTOBER14, 1943
Henrik sat crammed in the back of a black van with half a dozen prisoners en route from Vestre Fængsel to Dagmarhus. He rested his handcuffed wrists in his lap and eyed the armed guard sitting by the door.
“Time to report to work,” the man across from him said with a lisp due to all his missing teeth. “The pay stinks, but at least they provide free transportation.”
Henrik almost smiled at the typical Danish humor in the worst of circumstances. And the circumstances couldn’t be worse. Each man would be tortured all day, then dumped at the prison in the evening.
Last night, Henrik’s first night at the prison, his cellmate told him of this daily routine, to continue until the prisoner broke or the Gestapo lost interest. At that point came the trial and a trip to the shooting range.
“The new man got a bath.” The man to his left tipped his head toward Henrik.
If by bath, he meant the guards had dumped two buckets of icy water on Henrik’s naked body this morning, then yes, he’d bathed.
“Must be special,” the joker said in a mocking voice. “Or a stikker.”
His cellmate had warned him not to trust anyone in the prison. The Gestapo loved to plant stikkers pretending to be prisoners.
“Maybe I’m going to trial,” Henrik said.
The man beside him chuckled. “After only one day on the job? You should be so lucky.”
