Hemming hunched over, attacking the wood with quick strokes.
She’d never heard so many words from him. He’d spoken with wisdom and strength, and her heart went out to him, not with the silly flutter of a crush, but with warmth for a friend. “Hemming? Thank you.” She pressed the little dog to her heart.
He flicked his gaze to her, then down to his wood. He grunted in masculine embarrassment. “You’re welcome.”
“Let’s practice.” Laila held out her hand. “May I have the dog?”
With a little chuckle, Else handed the pup to her friend.
Laila wiggled the dog as if he were speaking. “Pardon me, Mortensen. You stepped on my tail. Such behavior is unprofessional, unacceptable, and rude. If you do not cease and desist, I shall have no choice but to bite you on the rump.”
A giggle bubbled out. “And that”—Else mimicked Laila’s doggy voice—“would be unpleasant for both of us.”
13
MONDAY, MAY10, 1943
For the first time in three years, Henrik walked down Bredgade, a few blocks from the family townhouse.
Thank goodness, Far wouldn’t be home. He always worked late.
The flagstones on the sidewalk shone dark from the heavy rains that had kept Henrik from crossing the Øresund the past weekend. But he’d met in the rain at Bøllemosen with the SOE agent, whose code name was Jam, and he’d agreed to this next step.
Men in well-tailored raincoats and expensive hats looked askance at Henrik’s cheap jacket and cap and scruffy beard, so he kept his eyes low.
When he’d learned the meeting place would be in his old neighborhood, he should have refused. Too many people could recognize him. Too many memories.
He could almost hear Far’s rants, as if the words had dissolved into the pavement and now rose with the evaporating rainwater.
Henrik’s hands balled up, but he forced his fingers straight.
Did he want to become more involved with the resistance to bring harm to the Nazis? Or to his father? Because if revenge played any role, he’d back out. He wanted no part of that. He needed to forgive Far—somehow—so he couldn’t indulge in vengeance.
The reports of Nazi atrocities had pushed Henrik over the edge.One could dismiss a single report as sensationalism, but the sheer quantity verified them.
In every occupied country but Denmark, oppressive conditions prevailed. Near-starvation rations. Forced labor. Severe punishments for minor offenses. Trainloads of people disappearing. Not just political prisoners and saboteurs, but ordinary civilians, sent to concentration camps because they were Jewish.
Horrible things happened in those camps. Some reports said a million people had been slaughtered. Men and women and children. Slaughtered.
The Danes needed to fight the Nazis because every decent human being needed to.
Henrik rounded the corner onto Frederiksgade, and the dome of Frederiks Kirke rose before him, the largest church dome in Scandinavia.
Four pillars graced the marble façade, and engraving on the pediment declared,“Herrens ord bliver evindelig”—the Word of the Lord endures forever.
After he removed his cap, Henrik climbed the shallow marble steps and opened the door.
Familiar smells filled his lungs. Every Sunday his family had been in town, Mor had taken him and his sisters to services here. Occasionally Far had joined them.
Henrik passed through purple curtains, drawn back on each side, and entered the circular sanctuary. Light from many windows brightened cold gray marble walls, and paintings of the twelve apostles adorned the inside of the massive dome.
Marmorkirken, the locals called it. Marble Church.
But he hadn’t come to admire the architecture or to remember his mother or even to worship. He’d come to meet a new contact, even more dangerous than exchanging envelopes in Søllerød Kirke.
Four columns of wooden pews filled the circular floor.
In a back pew, Jam sat with his dark head bowed. Toward the front, a handful of people sat praying.
