Henrik shrank back, a hunted prisoner.
No, he wasn’t. He was a gentleman, so he assumed an air ofcurious alarm and flagged down a passerby. “Excuse me. What’s happening?”
The young man’s face lit up. “A mob overturned a prison van. They’re looking for escaped prisoners.”
“Oh my,” Henrik said in a vague tone, and he strolled down the street with that same air of curious, what-has-happened-to-my-fair-city alarm.
At the corner newsstand, he bought a copy ofBerlingske Tidende, a respectable newspaper, and continued on his way.
The commotion faded, and Henrik heard a new sound—his heartbeat thumping in a strange beat of fear and hope.
49
STOCKHOLM
SUNDAY, OCTOBER31, 1943
The clouds had cleared from the Swedish skies, and the pavement glistened with spent rain as Else walked home from church.
If only the clouds would clear from her life.
At least she’d understood more of today’s service than she had the previous Sunday. Taking a Swedish class with Laila in the evenings helped—and also kept her mind off Hemming.
She shuddered. Keeping her mind off him seemed selfish, as if she cared only for her own heart.
Outside her building, a middle-aged man leaned against the wall, and she smiled. “Good day, Wolff. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Come with me.” He gestured down Kungsgaten the way she’d come. “Quickly. We’re late for our meeting.”
“Meeting?” Had Bohr’s absentmindedness rubbed off on his friend? “It’s Sunday.”
“Please hold your questions.” He glanced around with his homburg low over his eyes. “There are Gestapo agents in Stockholm.”
Else frowned and walked alongside her mentor at a brisk clip. The Gestapo had no jurisdiction in Sweden, and Wolff hadn’t been part of the resistance. Why the secrecy?
They crossed the Kungsbron over the Klara Sjö, a canal that ran through the city, reminding her of dear Copenhagen.
On the far side, they turned right on a path along the canal. The path curved through a tiny park, where bare trees stretched spindly branches over still waters.
A man in his forties in a fawn-colored overcoat and a gray fedora sat on a bench. He stood when Wolff and Else approached. “Good day, Dr. Wolff.” The man spoke English with a Boston accent, something Else hadn’t heard since the occupation.
“Good day, Mr. Kramer.” Wolff shook the man’s hand. “I’d like to introduce Dr. Else Jensen. Jensen, Mr. Kramer is with the US State Department.”
“Charmed.” He took her hand, and a smile shot wrinkles around handsome brown eyes. “They’re making physicists far prettier than when I was in school.”
“How do you do?” Else forced a smile. One of those compliments that disparaged both her gender and her occupation.
“She has an American passport,” Wolff said.
What was this about? Why introduce her to someone from the State Department?
Mr. Kramer frowned at Wolff. “You’re sure she’s—”
“She’s brilliant,” Wolff said in a pinched voice. “Fully versed in the field.”
“I’ll be.” Mr. Kramer shook his head with half a smile. “So, Miss Jensen—”
“Dr.Jensen,” Wolff said.
