Now what? He’d have to find a boat, but every interaction carried the risk of meeting a stikker or a German.
First, he needed to rest. He hadn’t eaten since his breakfast of a thin slice of rye bread at Vestre Fængsel, and now it was well past noon. He could at least sit somewhere out of sight of the coastal road and make plans.
He hobbled around the house. The Østergaards had a pier, but no boat. Behind the house, a tarp covered a large stack of firewood, which would block the wind and the view.
Henrik slid to the ground and leaned back against the wall with his right foot extended. Although his foot throbbed, he didn’t dare remove the shoe.
A piece of firewood could elevate it.
He lifted the corner of the tarp.
And saw light.
His boat! His ocean scull. “Far!”
Henrik scrambled to his knees and flung off the tarp. His scull lay on its side with his oars inside, even his supply box.
He opened the box. A note lay on top in Far’s handwriting, unaddressed and unsigned.
You have achieved greatness higher than I ever conceived in my flawed imagination. I’ve always loved you. Please forgive me for not telling you that every day of your life.
Because of your words, I’ll be able to continue my work here, which our mutual friends will appreciate.
Please pray for me, and I will pray for you. It’s time to make Mor’s faith my own as well.
Till we meet again in freedom. May it be soon.
Henrik’s eyes stung, and he tucked the note in his breast pocket and the words in his heart. Far would need many prayers continuing to pass intelligence to the Allies.
Blinking haze from his eyes, he examined the contents of the box—his balaclava, compass, flashlight, pistol, two canteens—Henrik screwed off a cap and downed blessed tinny water. And a stack of three rectangular paper-wrapped packages.
“Please...” He opened one. A smørrebrød.
Far had thought of everything. Henrik devoured it. Too quickly, and it threatened to come back up. He’d save the rest for later.
Henrik rested against the wall. He’d leave at five, half an hour after sunset.
Before him, the pier jutted into the Øresund. Ten miles of water stretched between him and Sweden, between him and freedom. Between him and Else.
Henrik woke in utter darkness. Prison! He was back in prison.
He gasped and flailed his arms.
He hit canvas, and the smell of varnish filled his nostrils.
Not prison, and his thundering heartbeat slowed. He’d lain down in the scull under the tarp to nap.
He lifted the tarp—almost as dark outside as in. He’d better not have burned up too much of the night.
His glowing radium watch dial read 6:15. Good. He needed every minute.
Henrik slithered out of the scull. Not a sliver of moonlight to help him, so he pulled the flashlight from his overcoat pocket and stashed everything in the boat, including the homburg and walking stick. Then he took a moment to eat a smørrebrød and drink some water.
After he pulled on the balaclava, he lifted the bow of the scull.Usually two men carried it, and Henrik wasn’t even at half his usual strength.
He dragged the scull down the grassy slope and grimaced from pain.
Finally he slid it into the water, and he collapsed onto his backside on the pier, panting. How on earth could he row ten miles?
