For the second time, Henrik had received a bath, but his hope and dread of a trial had dissipated when the van pulled up to Dagmarhus. Every day for two weeks.
Henrik jumped out of the van before they could drag him, landing on his better leg. He allowed one hearty breath of fresh, free air but didn’t glance skyward. That enraged the guards.
As the guards prodded the prisoners toward the building, Henrik favored his heel and repeated his goals. Never give them what they wanted. No anger, no hatred, no despair.
Keep bearing up. The Gestapo catalogued prior injuries, then worked them. Bruises invited more beating. Wounds were reopened. Broken bones—Henrik certainly had several in the swollen mess of his right foot, their favorite target.
The Kriminalkommissar met them at the door. “Ahlefeldt’s with me.”
The guard wrenched Henrik’s elbow, scraping his raw wrists against the handcuffs.
Henrik gritted his teeth and kept a close eye on the stairs, since his depth perception was off with one eye swollen shut.
They went up to the second floor again. The last time they’d brought him to that floor, they’d tried to trap Far. Whom did theyplan to trap today? Koppel, the crew—please no. Gaffel? Had they caught someone else connected to him?
They approached the same room, with the same guard at the door, and the goon shoved Henrik through the door.
By the table stood Far. His gaze flew to Henrik—and his face fell.
The shock stopped Henrik cold, and he fought to pull himself together. What was their game today? How could Henrik protect his father?
“Baron Ahlefeldt,” the Gestapo officer said to Far. “Out of gratitude for your services to Germany, you have ten minutes to say goodbye to your son.”
“Tak,” Far said in a clipped tone.
Goodbye. That meant his execution would be soon. And the dreadful longing resumed.
Now he had an opportunity to say what he needed to say to his father—but how could he when he needed to convince the Gestapo he hated him?
“Far, I—”
His father raised one hand to silence him, and for the first time in decades, Henrik obeyed—out of newfound respect and out of a sense that Far had come for a reason.
“Sit down, Henning.” Far motioned to the chair. “You look...”
Henrik hobbled to the chair. He could only imagine how he looked, two weeks after his last good meal, chunks of his beard missing and scabbed over, his eye swollen shut.
He lowered himself into the chair, and Far sat across the table with his back to the officer and guard.
Far clasped his hands on top of the table, and his knuckles whitened. “They’re holding you at Vestre Fængsel, I understand. Do you come here every morning? Even on Sundays?”
“First thing every day. Never thought I’d be punctual to work, did you?”
Far’s cheeks pocked, then flattened, and his eyes pinched. “I spoke to Svend’s parents. They’re sorry to hear what you’ve done, disappointed in you, of course.” He cast his eyes in the officer’s direction.
Henrik smirked. “I only regret getting caught.”
“Such a shame, they said. If only you could visit their villa, they’d talk sense into you.”
Odd. Henrik had never had that sort of relationship with the Østergaards. “Too late for that.”
Far sighed. “They wish we could go back to the days when you and Svend spent summers at their villa. You remember their villa.”
“Yes.” Although he’d never spent a summer there. What was Far up to?
“How you and Svend used torowat thevilla. How yourowed.” His gaze and voice held a strange intensity.
Henrik and Svend had never rowed at the Østergaard villa, always on the lakes. Was Far communicating a message? If so, what on earth was he saying?
