“Yes,” Henrik said in a measured tone. “How we rowed.”
Far huffed. “To think you used the skill I taught you to betray your people.” But his expression spoke of pride.
Henrik had to address the most vital topic. “I don’t apologize for being the Havmand, nor for the sabotage. It was my duty as a Dane. But I do apologize for how I behaved before the occupa—”
“Don’t apolo—”
“I must. I hate what you’re doing now. Despise it. But my rebellion when I was younger was wrong. Mor’s faith has become my own, and I must confess my sins.”
Far’s face reddened and contorted. “I drove you to it. I was too hard on you.”
Henrik leaned over the table, intensified his gaze, and dropped his voice to a breath. “I’ve already forgiven you.”
Far’s eyes stretched wide.
“Speak up, prisoner,” the officer said. “No whispering, or I’ll end this meeting.”
Henrik leaned back in his chair and curled his cracked lip. “As I said, yes, you drove me to it. Everything you did to me, everything you taught me—that made me the Havmand.”
Although Henrik had kept his tone cynical, Far seemed to comprehend his meaning. His forehead puckered, and his deep-setblue eyes gleamed like the Øresund on a summer day. “From the beginning, I sensed something special about you. I knew—I knew you were destined for greatness. And in my determination to bend you toward greatness, I—I broke you.”
“No, Far. I’m not broken. I will never be broken.”
Far’s gaze spilled over with the approval Henrik had sought for years, and he silently mouthed, “I’m proud of you.”
Henrik soaked it in, parched as he was, no longer needing his father’s approval but rejoicing in it.
With the Gestapo watching his every expression, listening to his every word, how could he communicate his love, his pride in his father?
He swallowed, moistened his lips, and tipped up his chin. “I am Henrik Ahlefeldt.”
Father’s face buckled, and he nodded.
“Your time is up,” the officer said. “Baron, say goodbye to your sorry excuse for a son.”
Henrik pushed himself up to standing.
Far stood too and fixed a strong gaze on Henrik. “Till we meet again.”
“Till we meet again,” Henrik said. But they never would.
“Guard, take the prisoner upstairs. I’ll see our guest out.”
Henrik headed for the door before the guard could drag him, and he gave his father one last significant gaze as he passed.
The guard hustled Henrik up to the fourth floor. Screams, moans, angry shouts, thuds, and cracks shattered the putrid air.
But nothing—nothing the Gestapo did could shatter his joy.
Once again, the goon tied Henrik’s elbows behind him and looped the rope over the hook on the wall. He swaggered around, preparing his loathsome instruments.
Henrik closed his eyes and prayed to get through another day.
The door opened, and the Kriminalkommissar sauntered closer in his shiny black boots. “Such a touching scene. Father and son. If only you could have more time together. If only you could be reconciled. The man obviously loves you, despite your crimes.”
Henrik stared at a blotchy spot on the wall and scrolled through an inventory of songs. Focusing on a song helped him endure.
“I have a proposition for you, Ahlefeldt. Out of respect for your father, we’re offering you a chance to live.”
