THURSDAY, OCTOBER14, 1943
The hold stank of vomit and despair, and Laila moaned with a migraine. If only Else could bring her up for fresh air, but the sunlight would make her headache worse.
They should have arrived in Sweden before sunrise. Now it was midafternoon.
The captain had told them nothing during the night and little during the day, but he’d allowed the refugees up to the deck since sunrise, with the provision that they scurry to the hold on a moment’s notice.
Else divided her time between deck and hold, but she could do nothing to help Laila.
She patted her friend’s arm. “I’m going up.”
Curled up on the cot, Laila nodded.
With her briefcase slung across her back, Else climbed the rope ladder, shoved open the hatch, and climbed out.
A chill wind stirred the partly cloudy skies, and Thorvald and Janne stood by the rails.
“Any idea where we are?” Else asked them in a low voice. The crew had become snippy about such questions.
“The winds were high last night, and they blew us off course.We’re steaming due east. That should be Sweden.” Thorvald nodded to the land ahead.
If they’d deviated too far, the land could be Denmark—or even Germany. How awful it would be to deliver themselves back to the Germans after all this.
Else left the Thorups and found a spot to sit facing west, facing Hemming.
She hated thinking of what he was going through. Such a strong man of body and spirit would take much torture to break, and she cringed.
If only she had a photo of him. Why did her last memory have to be his complete disappointment in her?
Her sigh blew away with the wind. Feeling sorry for herself was selfish with Hemming undergoing torture and thousands of Danish Jews fleeing for their lives.
She hugged the briefcase closer, needing the physical connection to Hemming. His Bible, his journal, the Havmand figurine. Would he hate it if she read his journal? Or welcome it?
For the first time, she felt the lifting of a window shade inside her and sun streaming in. It was time to open it.
Else pulled out the brown leather book, and she stroked the cover, soft and dark from handling.
The first page was inscribed 9 June 1940, and Hemming’s script flowed over the page, manly and elegant.
Two months have passed on my new journey. So much is difficult—the manual labor, keeping silent, the rude treatment from men who would have kowtowed before me only two months ago. All try my soul, as weak as it is.
Evenings try me the most. Drink and friends loosen the tongue and must be avoided. How else to fill the bleak quiet? I’ve found myself desperate enough to consider reading, but the only book I have is Mor’s Bible.
I have not become desperate enough to open it.
Yet the urge grows.
If only Far had been the religious one of my parents, soI could reject his religion. But it is not so. My beloved Mor credited her kindness and strength to her faith, which gives religion more credit than due. However, I’m afraid my utter boredom will feed the temptation to crack that cover.
And the light inside might strike me blind.
Else smiled softly at the insight into a younger Hemming. The sea breeze ruffled the pages, and she flipped forward. He’d written sporadically, every day for a week or so, then nothing for weeks.
The pages fell open to 11 May 1943.
Today “E” talked to her boss, and with inimitable gentle strength, she achieved her goal. I am proud of her. She has succeeded in adding courage to her excellent list of virtues. Oh, what a woman! What great things she can accomplish!
To know I played some small role—small indeed with my feeble vocabulary and brusque demeanor—in her epiphany.
