A spark of hope tugged his eyes toward the officer, but he resisted and extinguished it. How many times had they offered his life in exchange for names?
The officer paced in front of him. “This Havmand character is quite popular. What if you used the voice of the Havmand for good instead of evil? What if you worked with us instead of against us?”
He stood right in Henrik’s face, blocking his view of the spot on the wall. “You could have a great influence on your people. You could be reunited with your family and live in freedom and luxury. You could live.”
Henrik slammed his eyes shut. Memories flooded his mind of Mor reading in the nursery, of Else reading in the garret, and the voices of the women he loved pointed to the truth, to the story that had inspired him on the harbor three and a half years earlier.
He pierced the Gestapo officer with his gaze. “Are you familiar with Hans Christian Andersen’s tale of the Little Mermaid?”
The officer’s chin drew back. “Pardon?”
“Den Lille Havfrue exchanged her voice for legs so she could win the heart of the prince. But the prince married another, dooming the Little Mermaid to die the next day. Then her sisters came to her with a dagger from the Sea Witch. Plunge it into the heart of the prince, they said, and she would have her fins again—she would live.”
The officer crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’re telling me a fairy tale instead of responding to my offer?”
“I am responding.” Henrik pulled himself as tall as his restraints allowed. “Just as the Little Mermaid refused to kill the prince she loved, I refuse to accept your poisonous knife of lies and plunge it into the heart of the people I love. Like the Little Mermaid, I choose death.”
The officer took one step back. “So be it.”
48
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
TUESDAY, OCTOBER26, 1943
If Else’s career had languished in Mortensen’s lab, it would suffocate at the University College of Stockholm unless she learned Swedish quickly.
Words floated around the laboratory, and Else snatched a few out of the air. The physicists spoke English when addressing her, but she missed the ebb and flow of ideas.
She sighed and put on her coat and hat for lunch. At least she had work.
After Else and the other refugees had arrived in Sweden, customs officials inspected their luggage, physicians examined them, and police checked papers of all who had them. Then they’d been taken to a comfortable camp where they’d received food and clothing. Laila had joyfully reunited with her family.
The Danish Refugee Office had just opened in Stockholm, and Laila took a job there to help refugees find employment and housing. Else moved into an apartment with Laila and found a position in the department of physics, thanks to the many physicists there who had worked with Niels Bohr.
On her way downstairs, Else passed scientists in conversation. Bohr had gone to England, but Wolff, Hevesy, and Levi were in Stockholm. If only Wolff could set up his own lab, but he spoke in nebulous terms about other plans.
Outside, a cloudy sky hung over the tree-lined street, and Else headed down Kungsgaten. Despite her coat, a shiver ran through her.
She was meeting Svend and Birgitte Østergaard at a café. The Thorups had contacted Svend soon after their arrival, and the family had already become dear to her.
If anything had happened to Hemming, Svend would know.
She passed a dark-haired couple speaking Danish, and Else summoned smiles for her fellow refugees. At the Refugee Office, Laila had learned that thousands of Danish Jews had arrived in Sweden. From what they could tell, the Germans had arrested only a few hundred, not the sixteen hundred originally reported. It was miraculous.
At the café, Svend stood and gave her a soft smile. “Good day, Else. No news.”
Relief flooded her heart, then subsided. Hemming still lived. But Hemming was still imprisoned and undergoing torture. Else endured a continual state of mourning, heavy and dense.
After Svend pulled out a chair for her, Else sat and worked up a smile for quiet and sweet-natured Birgitte.
They each ordered Köttbullar meatballs, mashed potatoes, and lingonberry sauce. Then Svend asked Else about her work, and she asked the Østergaards about their children.
When the food arrived, Svend poked at a meatball with his fork. “Henning always loved Frikadeller. He went through a tremendous growth spurt when we were about twelve, so I sneaked him extra meatballs from my plate. When I had my growth spurt, he returned the favor.”
Else’s smile wobbled. She craved Svend’s stories even as they made her ache. “He—he treasures your friendship. When he was in his most rebellious years, you—your stability and steadfastness—they were an anchor to him.”
Svend’s pale face turned blotchy, and he cleared his throat.
