“I can’t.” The words floated up to the hazy sky. He hadn’t the strength. His shoulders were wrenched, his foot mangled.
But if he stayed? He’d be caught again. Shot.
Worse. They’d want Koppel and Rasmussen and Frandsen and Mikkel and everyone who had helped the prisoners. They’d want Far.
A growl rose from deep in his gut. He couldn’t let that happen.
He lowered himself into the scull, which was difficult without Thorup to hold it steady, and he settled into his seat with his right leg lying alongside the rails. If his left leg tired too much, he’d grit the pain and use both legs.
Henrik shoved away from the pier and gripped the oars.
He took a stroke. His shoulders protested, and his one-legged layback faltered.
How could he do this? He had thousands of strokes to go. “Lord, I need your strength. I have none of my own.”
He pulled another stroke with a fraction of his usual power.
At best, he’d make it to Sweden. At worst, he’d fade into seafoam like the Little Mermaid and pass from the earth. Either way, he’d make sure he was never captured.
“For Else,” he murmured, and he rowed.
For Koppel. For Far. With each stroke, he remembered another person who had helped him. Another person to protect. Another person he loved.
He picked up some speed and found a rhythm in his crooked stroke, as his body accepted pain as its lot in life.
For Else. For Else. For Else.
50
STOCKHOLM
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER6, 1943
Laila had been so charmed by the bench along the Klara Sjö that Else hadn’t the heart to dissuade her. Although eating lunch where she’d met with Mr. Kramer wasn’t wise.
“The Refugee Office received a report from the Swedish police.” Laila folded the paper that had wrapped her smørrebrød, and her face glowed. “Over seven thousand Jews have arrived in Sweden from Denmark.”
Else’s mouth flopped open. “But that—that’s how many you thought lived in Denmark to begin with.”
“More than we thought. From what we can tell, the Germans arrested four hundred, five hundred at most.”
How horrible for those five hundred. Yet so many had escaped.
Laila tugged at her gloves. “Plus, several hundred non-Jewish family members have come, as well as helpers, like you and the Thorups.”
“All on fishing boats—”
“And yachts, rowboats, whatever could sail. Hundreds, thousands of Danes working together.”
“It’s incredible.” But Else’s fingers tangled in her lap.
Any day now, Else’s name would rise to the top of the prioritylist, the weather would permit the RAF to fly, and Mr. Kramer would send for her. She had to tell Laila, and yet again she had to keep a secret from her.
Laila patted Else’s hand. “Anytime you knit your fingers, I know something’s on your mind.”
Else flattened her hands on her lap. “I’m going to the United States.”
“You are? You said it was impossible.”
