COPENHAGEN
MONDAY, MARCH1, 1943
Henrik might have to move out of Fru Riber’s boardinghouse. He pedaled down Vestre Boulevard, a stiff breeze pushing his wheels.
Hundreds of people rode bicycles to work in the cool morning. Only Germans drove gasoline-powered cars, and the few Danes allowed to drive for professional reasons were relegated to vehicles fueled by wood gas.
Else Jensen’s presence at Søllerød Kirke had dug a pothole in his road. He’d been so careful to remain nameless in Vedbæk and Søllerød. He never talked to anyone except the Thorups, and they avoided his name if asked about their visiting “nephew.”
Henrik pedaled down the wide boulevard lined with elegant buildings. He hated to move. His garret room was isolated, and the students ignored him. Only Else and Laila seemed determined to be friendly, as if to prove they weren’t snobs. For that, he could hardly fault them.
Besides, he found their conversation stimulating.
The boulevard flowed out onto the Langebro, a bridge crossing Copenhagen’s harbor, and sunshine glinted on the water.
Even if he moved, someone at Søllerød Kirke knew his name.Someone sweet and appealing. And her rather disapproving grandparents as well.
Should he arrange a new drop site? That would require coordination between Svend and his resistance contacts, and the new drop site might not work as well.
He’d have to balance the dangers of a new drop site with the dangers of his name being known in Søllerød.
In a few minutes, he arrived at the shipyard, parked in the bicycle shed, and made his way to the carpenter shop. Since the morning shift didn’t start for half an hour, the shipyard was almost deserted. Lars Koppel had asked his crew to arrive early to sharpen the saws.
Tom Rasmussen stood at the door to the crew’s storage room in the shop, and he beckoned Henrik inside. Koppel sat on a crate, and the rest of the crew loafed around.
No saws in sight.
Rasmussen ushered in Eriksen and Blom, then shut the door.
Gunnar Skov frowned around the room. “I thought we were sharpening saws.”
Koppel planted his broad hands on his knees. “That isn’t why I called this meeting.”
Henrik cocked one eyebrow. One of the reasons he preferred working in the yard to the offices was the lack of meetings.
Koppel’s pale-eyed gaze swept the crew. “How many of you listen to the BBC?”
Skov and Rasmussen raised their hands. Henrik did too, and the others chuckled and followed suit. The BBC broadcasts provided reliable information in the Danish language.
“Then you know they called on Danish workers to commit sabotage.” Koppel kept his voice low. “The resistance groups are growing bolder, committing more sabotage every month.”
Skov’s eyes burned in his narrow face. “It’s about time.”
Some of the men murmured and nodded.
Henrik folded his arms over his squirming gut. He didn’t like where Koppel was heading.
Koppel ran his hand over his balding head. “The bombing ofBurmeister og Wain was a message. If we don’t destroy the German ships, the RAF will. If they do, civilians will die—women and children too.”
Skov brandished his fist. “Let’s blow those ships sky-high.”
“Are you crazy?” Eriksen glared at Skov. “They’ll kill us all, kill innocent hostages. That’s what they do in France, if you haven’t heard. You want that here?”
“Better than being Hitler’s tame little pet canary.” Skov stepped into Eriksen’s face. “That’s what they call Denmark—ifyouhaven’t heard. I’m sick of it. It’s time to fight.”
“Hold on, Skov.” Koppel motioned for the young man to back off.
Skov grumbled but obeyed.
