Else took a bite of a savory meatball in cream sauce. Hemming hadn’t talked much about Svend, but his journal often mentioned “S.” Else had read the entire journal twice.
She scooped mashed potatoes onto her fork, then paused. “I—I have his Bible and journal. After the war, I’d like your help to return them to his family.”
Svend speared her with his gaze. “Henning isn’t dead.”
“It’s only a matter of time.” Her throat cramped around the words.
“I beg to differ. The Nazis may be brutal, but they aren’t stupid. If they execute the Havmand, they create a martyr, a symbol for Danes to rally around. No, they’ll quietly deport him to a concentration camp. And he’s strong. If anyone can survive, he can.”
Else gave a jerky nod. If only she shared his optimism. The Germans might not want to make a martyr, but they delighted in making examples. Executing the Havmand would send a shock wave through the resistance.
And the Nazis exulted in power over all else.
Birgitte covered Else’s hand with her narrow hand. “How are you doing?”
Else breathed in all she’d learned the past few months. What had Hemming written about her?“She has succeeded in adding courage to her excellent list of virtues.”
She squeezed Birgitte’s hand. “I will be all right.”
COPENHAGEN
SUNDAY, OCTOBER31, 1943
Sundays were meant for church, for relaxing with Else by the sea. Not for torture.
The prison van rumbled down the street with eight dejected prisoners and the guard Henrik nicknamed Stomper for his pastime of stomping on the remains of Henrik’s right foot.
Soon it would come to an end, probably in the coming week. Since Far’s second visit, the interrogations had lessened. They’d even let the swelling in his eye recede. It was time to toss the wrung-out rag of his life before the firing squad.
The van slammed to a stop, and Henrik bumped into the prisonerbeside him. The horn blared. Bicyclists enjoyed interfering with Gestapo vans, just for spite.
A sharp crack. A gunshot?
Henrik sucked in a breath, and Stomper gripped his gun.
Shouts outside, cries. Another shot. Another. Were the Nazis shooting civilians? For blocking traffic?
Henrik’s gut burned. How long did the world have to endure Nazi barbarity?
The van lurched to the side, tipped, rocked Henrik onto his back. What on earth?
The man across from him cursed and slid off the bench.
“Someone’s breaking us out!” the man next to Henrik cried.
Could it be? Crazy, wild hope surged into his lungs. He had no time to mull over the possibility. “Help them, men! Help!”
Henrik slammed his back hard against the van’s side, and prisoners scrambled up onto the seat, pushing and leaning.
“I’ll shoot!” Stomper shouted. But he was down on hands and knees on the tilted floor.
Using his rowing muscles, Henrik worked his good foot beneath him, shot upright, and heaved himself backward.
A wobble. The van crashed to the side.
Henrik landed hard on his back, banged his head, cried out.
“Get the gun!” a man shouted.
