It humbles me to know I have helped, and it gives me hope that someday I could be the sort of man who leads others to great things. Perhaps even the sort of man who could gain the love of a luminous woman like “E.”
“Oh, Hemming,” she whispered. She didn’t deserve the praise, but she welcomed it. “Darling, you did gain my love.”
Tears stung her eyes, but the wind whisked them away.
The final journal entry dated from 12 September 1943.
How can I describe last night? The weather—perfect. My sport—at its best. My heart—buoyant in anticipation of an afternoon with “E.”
But what tied the night together in perfection was the sense of purpose.
Three and a half years ago, “S” told me I’d conducted my sport for myself, and he challenged me to do so for something higher. I have been, and I am.
The night was pure gold—the moon, the reflection on the water, the love inside me, and the goodness, the rightness of living for others, not myself.
He’d found the gold. Earned it. Wasn’t this why Else had admired the Havmand and fallen in love with Hemming? A man of courage, putting the needs of his country above his own needs. Above his own heart.
Else’s breath snagged on that thought. That was why he’d been disappointed—not because of some defect in her, but because she’d put her heart above the higher good, because she’d forgotten who he was. She’d asked him to violate the very values she prized most in him.
“Please forgive me.” The words gulped out. But he couldn’t hear them, never would.
A man whooped from the bow of the boat.
Else clutched the journal to her chest and whipped around.
Thorvald and Janne leaned over the rail, waving and cheering. Janne held onto her hat and sent Else a huge grin. “A Swedish patrol boat. Swedish!”
“Thank goodness.” Else slipped the journal into the briefcase and dashed to the rail.
A motorboat sped up, and a blue flag with a yellow cross snapped in the wind. In the distance, a harbor opened.
“Sweden!” Janne pulled her into a tight hug.
“I should tell the others.”
“Yes, do.”
Else flung open the hatch. “We’re in Sweden! We’re safe.”
“Thank goodness,” a woman cried.
Soon the refugees climbed up to the deck, even Laila, shielding her eyes but grinning.
Else embraced her friend. “We’re here. We made it.”
One of the men faced west, held his hat over his heart, and sang the Danish national anthem, “Der er et yndigt land”—“There Is a Lovely Land,” his tone mournful and proud.
Else joined in with a warbling voice.
When the song concluded, the man marched to the bow of the boat and sang “Du gamla, du fria,” the Swedish national anthem.
Else didn’t know the words or the language, but she listened as the patrol boat zipped closer, the sailors shouting,“Välkommen till Sverige.”
So many emotions tumbled inside—gratitude for the welcome of the Swedish people, relief that their lives had been spared, uncertainty for what lay ahead, and deep grief for a man who had sacrificed his life for freedom.
COPENHAGEN
MONDAY, OCTOBER25, 1943
