Henrik could only step up with his left foot and drag his right. “I can’t keep up.”
On the landing, Koppel stopped, his face soft. “The sooner we get you out of sight, the better. You stand out.”
Bracing himself on the banister, Henrik hauled himself up.
He was free? Truly free? He wouldn’t be executed this week?
The mud in his mind swirled, and colors appeared. He might live. He might actually live. He might see Else again. Have a life with her.
That hope propelled him up those stairs, down a wickedly long hallway, through a door between buildings, and down two more flights of stairs.
Koppel knocked on a door. One hard rap, three light raps, two hard.
The door opened, and Koppel bustled Henrik into the back of a barbershop.
Tom Rasmussen from the shipyard stood inside with another man in his forties and a young woman. Blackout curtains obscured the front windows.
Rasmussen twisted his hands before him. “Good day, Herre—Baron—Ahlefeldt.”
Koppel rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t believe I spent the last three years bossing around the owner’s son.”
Henrik stared at the men. “How did you—how did you find out? And call me Henrik—or Hemming.”
“Sit.” Koppel gestured to the barber’s chair. “We’ll turn you into a middle-aged businessman so you can escape. Rasmussen’s brother, Mikkel, is a barber, and his daughter will apply makeup.”
Henrik eased himself into the barber’s chair. “All right, Koppel. What’s going on?”
Mikkel cranked back the chair over the sink and laid a hot towel over Henrik’s beard and mustache.
Koppel sat in the adjacent chair. “Your father learned of your arrest—and your resistance activity—from a family friend.”
Thorup. Water ran behind him, down over his scalp, warm and relaxing.
“He summoned me to his office.” Koppel clasped his hands between his knees. “He wanted to know everything about you—your work habits, your character, all that.”
With his eyes shut, Henrik grunted his understanding as the barber massaged shampoo into his filthy hair. Far must have been stunned to learn he’d never missed a day unless ill.
“I was shocked when he told me who you were, but it explained everything.” Koppel let out a wry chuckle. Then he coughed. “He and I—we put together this plan to break you out.”
The warm water cascading over his scalp threatened to lull Henrik to sleep. But he couldn’t afford to relax. Every Nazi in town would be hunting him. “What’s next?”
Mikkel toweled off Henrik’s head. “We’ll shave off your beard and dye your hair brown. My daughter’s drawing a bath for you upstairs. Your father brought clothes.”
Henrik’s throat swelled. He didn’t need to be told his father loved him—not when he’d shown it at the risk of his own life. He cleared his throat. “Then what?”
“Your father told you,” Koppel said. “Don’t tell us—the less we know, the better.”
Henrik stared at Koppel. “My father told me?”
“He told you where to go and how to escape.”
He had?
A pungent smell arose, and Mikkel massaged Henrik’s scalp again, working in hair dye.
Then the barber removed the towel from Henrik’s beard and began to shave, apologizing when he hit scabs and sores. “I—I don’t know if your beard will grow back fully.”
Koppel’s eyes smoldered. “What did those brutes do to you?”
