Else attached the first stencil to the drum by the tabs in the cardboard strip. Then she rolled it around the drum and secured the bottom strip under a metal flap.
She opened a cap in the drum and squeezed a tube of thick black ink inside. With plenty of blank paper in one tray, the machine was ready.
Else turned the crank. The drum rolled, sucking a piece ofpaper from the tray and shooting it out the other side with words on it. She cranked it again, round and round, twenty-five times.
Now for the second page. Try as she might, she couldn’t remove the old stencil without getting ink on her fingers. Attaching the second stencil was messy too.
After she wiped her hands on a rag, she started cranking, her throat thick and her eyes misty.
Not only had Mortensen humiliated her, but he’d excluded her from the meeting. By the time she’d copied the twenty-page paper, they’d be in the thick of discussion. Else wouldn’t dare contribute for fear of repeating someone else’s comments.
This was no act of an absentminded professor. This was a calculated plot.
How dare he? Else had earned a doctorate and a position at one of the most prestigious institutes in the world.
And she was making copies. The work was beneath her.
She gasped, and her hand slipped off the crank. Beneath her? What a horrible, arrogant thought.
Else studied her ink-blackened hands. Her gesture reminded her of when Hemming told her he was a manual laborer.
Hemming worked with his hands. Else worked with her brain. Mrs. Iversen worked with flying fingers and crack organizational skills.
No one type of work was better than another. No one person was better than another.
“Lord, humble me,” she whispered.
A damp little giggle erupted. He was indeed humbling her, here at the mimeograph machine.
Else cranked out the remaining sheets for that page and stacked them on the table. She switched stencils, wiped her hands, and went back to cranking.
Was this how the illegal papers were printed?
Throughout Denmark, clandestine groups printed the news. In hushed tones, Laila had told about her work onFrit Danmark. Some of the workers gathered the news, some typed it up, some printed it, and others distributed it.
The papers would be busy today. Yesterday, free elections had been held. Almost 90 percent of Danish voters had elected members of the Folketing, the lower house of parliament.
The German Reich Plenipotentiary for Denmark, Werner Best, had allowed the elections to demonstrate German generosity.
After almost three years of treating Denmark far more leniently than any other occupied country, the Germans expected the Danes to embrace the Danish Nazi Party in gratitude.
They hadn’t. Last night, the State Radio announced the Nazis had received three seats—the same three seats they already held.
Else smiled and rolled the next stencil into place. Another example of Den Kolde Skulder.
For three years, ordinary Danes had presented that cold shoulder to the Germans, ignoring them and pretending not to hear them.
Now they had voted a cold shoulder.
It was a safe way of resisting. Else hummed a tune as she cranked out copies.
Her tune faded. Was the cold shoulder enough? The Germans hadn’t exactly left.
Being civil and accommodating kept Denmark safe, but it didn’t change German minds or actions.
Else stacked the completed page, and Mortensen’s name flashed on top.
Her breath snagged.
