Henrik slapped on his fedora. While theAquitaniahad been constructed as a luxurious ocean liner, she’d been painted dull gray and stripped of all niceties for her duties as a troopship.
Even before the war, the cot would have been too narrow for him alone, much less for him and his wife. Yet the ravine between their cots couldn’t be borne.
“Back in America.” Else’s gaze seemed distant and sad.
Henrik handed over her briefcase. “We’ll make new friends, but no one can replace those we’ve left behind.” It had been difficultto leave Stockholm so soon after his reunion with the Thorups, the Østergaards, and Laila.
Else gave him a brave smile and shouldered her briefcase.
In Stockholm, Henrik and Svend had met with Danish leaders and American officials. They’d decided Henrik would work with the Danish legation in the United States to raise funds for the resistance and serve as a voice for the Free Danes.
Strings had been pulled—snapped, really—and they’d placed Henrik and Else on an RAF Mosquito bound for London, then the HMTAquitaniabound for New York.
In London, telegrams had flown back and forth to the US. Else had notified her family of her imminent arrival, and Henrik had told his friend Peter from Harvard, although wartime necessitated omitting ship names and dates.
On Thursday, Henrik had an appointment in Washington with Henrik Kauffmann, the Danish ambassador to the US and an outspoken proponent of the Free Danish movement. Meanwhile, Else had her own secret meetings. Details were scarce, but she would be shuttled to some laboratory. He might not see her often for the duration, a common hardship for couples during wartime but a hardship they could bear.
“I’m ready.” Else picked up one suitcase.
He picked up the other. He should have carried both, but he couldn’t. With his grandfather’s walking stick in hand, he led his wife into the passageway and up the staircase.
Henrik needed surgery. His stubbornness had delayed it and might cripple him forever in his right foot, the physicians had warned him with grave faces.
But they’d wanted to hospitalize him for weeks. How could he? He had important plans. Marrying Else, for one.
He held open the door to the main deck for his wife.
In the Mosquito, he’d asked when she wanted to get married. After some dithering, she’d admitted she’d marry him “tonight if we could.”
They couldn’t, but they’d arranged the ceremony in London within days.
The deck teemed with men, and Else took Henrik’s arm.
Most of the passengers were American servicemen, wounded in action and sent home for rehabilitation. Some were US airmen who had finished their “combat tours” and were coming home for rest and recreation before returning to their aircraft.
But other civilians sailed too.
Niels Bohr, his twenty-one-year-old son, Aage, and a handful of scientists stood at the rails, surrounded by bodyguards. Else gave the Bohrs a little wave.
An empty spot at the rails beckoned to Henrik. They set down their suitcases, and Henrik put his arm around the hollow of Else’s waist.
In the chill, damp air, the New York skyline rose to the low clouds.
“There she is.” Else pointed ahead. “The Statue of Liberty. She’s never meant more to me.”
And to the servicemen on board. Some cheered and hollered and clapped each other on the back. Some watched in hushed silence.
Henrik leaned close to Else’s tasty little ear. “Will they throw me overboard if I say I prefer another statue of a lady overlooking the water?”
She pressed her ear up against his lips and laughed. “I won’t let them.”
He tweaked her earlobe with his lips. “I feel so much safer.”
Then he rested his cheek against the crown of her hat and studied the giant maiden striding toward them, her chin determined, her eyes offering hope.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, Den Lille Havfrue gazed with shoulders bent from longing and loss. “Both women speak of sacrifice, don’t they? Of giving oneself for higher ideals.”
“They do,” Else said. “Oh, Hemming! You could use that in your speeches.”
