For months, Else had been civil and accommodating, but Mortensen’s attitude and behavior hadn’t changed. If anything, he grew ruder and crueler.
Perhaps being nice wasn’t enough.
9
THURSDAY, APRIL8, 1943
Fragrant curls of golden beechwood fell from beneath Henrik’s whittling knife and into the bucket between his feet. Fru Riber didn’t mind if he carved in the living room as long as he cleaned up after himself.
Henrik sat in a chair near the dining room, letting the four male undergraduates have the two sofas flanking the woodstove. The distance allowed him to listen to their conversation without being tempted to participate. Tonight they were discussing a professor they deemed unfair, a topic that didn’t interest Henrik.
Carving provided an excuse to be present, and he’d found he enjoyed it. Usually he crafted little animals, many of them such poor representations he fed them to the stove. But over time, his carving was improving.
This evening, the Havmand was emerging from the beechwood, unbidden. The head and torso he could complete in the living room, but the merman’s fins would be carved in the privacy of his room.
Perhaps it was his subconscious way of commemorating his own thirty-third birthday today and the Havmand’s third birthday on Saturday.
Henrik poked the tip of his knife into the figurine’s beard to add texture.
His birthday had passed unnoticed. When he was a boy, he’d wake to find presents on the bed. Then Mor would serve thekagemandbirthday cake shaped like a man and decorated with candies and Danish flags. Henrik’s little sisters would squeal when he chopped off the kagemand’s head according to tradition. After festive singing, Far would list the accomplishments he expected from his son in the coming year. Eager to please in his youth, Henrik had obeyed and achieved. But Far was never satisfied.
A ripple of laughter flowed from the students.
Henrik’s knife had moved down to the figurine’s hips as if determined to carve fins.
Not in public.
Knowing he was carving the Havmand brought an energizing thrill of courting danger, a taste of what he felt rowing the Øresund.
But Svend’s proposal elicited no thrill, only a chill in his gut. This past weekend, Svend had again asked Henrik to contact the SOE agent. The British wanted to gather the various Danish resistance groups under the Allied umbrella—including one lone merman.
The British had begun parachuting weapons and explosives into Denmark, and they planned to send men to train saboteurs.
The chill in his gut crystallized to ice. Lars Koppel wanted explosives to commit sabotage. Henrik could provide the connection.
With his thumb braced on the wood, Henrik eased the knife over the curve of the shoulder.
What would the connection cost? Henrik had sacrificed his lavish lifestyle to become Hemming. He’d sacrificed his voice to become the Havmand. He risked his life with every stroke of his oars, every exchange of envelopes under kneeling benches.
Wood gave way, and his knife slipped into the hollow of the Havmand’s neck.
He couldn’t take further risks. The more contacts he made, the more likely he’d meet someone who recognized him. The more he spoke, the more likely he’d reveal his upper-class background. And if anyone connected the Havmand to the Ahlefeldts, theymight connect his courier work to Lyd-af-Lys, endangering the Thorups.
The students left the room without acknowledging Henrik, but he didn’t mind.
Male and female voices mixed in the hallway. Then the door opened, and Else and Laila entered.
“Hej, Hemming,” Else said with her glowing smile.
“Hej.” Laila waved and headed to the stove.
Else strolled closer carrying a notebook. She wore a white sweater with a starry blue Danish pattern. It fit snugly around her little waist, accentuating what his American friends called an hourglass figure. The type of figure he’d enjoyed most before the war.
Henrik lowered his chin to his work. “Hej.”
“What are you carving tonight?” She stood beside his chair. “Oh, a little man. He looks like you.”
“Oh?” Had his carving improved that much?
