16
THURSDAY, MAY20, 1943
Else and Laila pulled on their spring coats and entered the living room.
“Good night, everyone.” Laila waved. “We’re going to see a movie.”
Else aimed a smile around the room. “Good night.”
The students raised hands in farewell, and Ib Malmstrøm called out, “Enjoy yourselves.”
In his chair in the corner, Hemming looked up from his carving and gave the ladies a nod.
Words stuck in Else’s throat. If this were a social outing, she should have invited him. But this was no social outing.
Else followed Laila downstairs. They retrieved their bikes from the space under the stairs, maneuvered them outside, and pedaled down the street. The sky shone bright in the long northern spring daylight.
She tried to swallow the words, but they remained stuck. It was one thing to converse with Hemming over dinner, and another to invite him into her circle of friends, small though it was. Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate.
But why? Was she a snob? She didn’t want to be.
Else frowned. Or was she just putting a wise hedge around her crush on Hemming?
Containing that crush grew harder each day. The physical attraction she could write off, but not when supplemented by his character. A character that drew her with truths simply spoken and actions kindly performed.
They had little in common—nothing really—but the reasonable portion of her brain went to mush when that deep voice spoke.
Thank goodness he’d shown no romantic interest, because she’d hate to spurn a good man.
Laila turned the corner, and Else fell in beside her. Laila had planned a route with many turns in case anyone was watching. Following.
With a shudder, Else glanced behind her. Half a block back, an elderly woman carried a basket. Probably not Gestapo.
But the Gestapo had come to town. They’d moved in to Dagmarhus, joining the German administrators. Right above Mr. Staffeldt’s charming bookstore.
At an intersection, Laila stopped her bike and planted her feet on both sides.
Else did the same, waiting for the tan-colored tram to pass on its tracks, guided by humming electrical wires.
“Are you sure?” Laila asked, her tone light, as if chatting about the movie they were supposed to watch.
Else stroked the little dog in her coat pocket. In their loyalty, dogs protected their homes. Else’s home of Denmark had been occupied, and her home of America was at war. Else could at least bark. “I’m absolutely sure.”
“You’re willing to do something wrong to do something right?”
“I’m willing to do somethingright. Telling the truth is right.”
Laila sent her a smile, her dark curls swinging under her brown hat, and she pedaled across the street. “Do I have Mortensen to thank for this?”
“Ironically, yes.” Else pulled up alongside her friend.
“I haven’t heard you grumble his name for days.”
Over a week. “My plan is working. I delegate the secretarial work and errands, and I’m busy in the lab.”
“And on the mimeograph machine.”
Mortensen always handed her papers to copy at inopportune times, still trying to expel her from the lab. But she and Mrs. Iversen had discussed ways to iron out that wrinkle.
