Laila turned down a narrow street. “The lab must be more peaceful.”
“Oh no. I’ve wounded his pride, and he can’t bear it.” A herd of bicycles approached, and she eased her bike closer to the curb.
“He has no choice. You were right, you caught him in a lie, and you have two witnesses.”
Else smiled. He had to be kicking himself that he hadn’t accepted her offer of privacy.
After more turns than Else could count, they arrived at an apartment building near the university. They left their bikes in the lobby, and Laila led Else up several flights of stairs.
Else’s heart rate skittered. Printing an illegal paper could lead to arrest and imprisonment. Since Denmark had abolished the death penalty in 1930, the Danish government didn’t allow the Germans to execute members of the resistance, but people had been killed in roundups.
Else set her chin, and Hemming’s voice rumbled in her head—“Next time you will be brave earlier.”
Laila led her down a dimly lit hallway. “Be like the Havmand,” she whispered.
“I have no intention of swimming the Øresund.”
“Some say he rows.”
That made more sense. “I have no intention of rowing either. But I can print.” If the Havmand could risk his life to spread information, so could she.
With a furtive look in both directions, Laila knocked six times.
A young man opened the door. Wavy brown hair swept back from his high forehead, and he ushered them in.
The tiny apartment was full—four people, two duplicating machines, and two typewriters, all in action.
“This is my friend,” Laila said. “She can print copies.”
“Good evening.” Else had been warned that no names would be used.
“Thank you,” a blond in her twenties said around the pencil between her teeth, barely glancing up from her typing.
Laila had told her how stories came in by courier. Some were written by reporters from the legal newspapers, who sent articles not allowed in their publications. Others came from government officials or business owners. Some were transcribed from BBC broadcasts.
Laila motioned to the typewriters. “We type up the stencils here. That’s my job. We run some copies here, others at locations around the city. Then we send them out to be distributed.”
The blond headed to a mimeograph machine, and Else stepped aside to let her pass.
“I’ll bring you the typed stencils.” Laila held up a blank stencil, waxy and translucent. “Each is good for about two hundred copies.”
The fellow who’d answered the door tapped a stack of papers on the desk to straighten them. “Stencils are hard to buy, so make as many copies as possible from each. Keep going until the copies are illegible. And they’re fragile, so treat them with care.”
“I know.” She’d torn several at the institute.
“Do you have nail polish?”
“I think so. Yes, I do.” Nail polish rarely lasted in the lab, so she only wore it for special occasions. “Why?”
He gestured to a little red bottle on the table. “It mends tears in stencils.”
“How clever.”
“We’ll send you paper and ink whenever possible.” He set the stack of papers on top of a staggered pile.
“Thank you. I have permission to use supplies at—” She choked off the revealing detail. “But I’d prefer not to.” Whoever ordered supplies might become suspicious of a sudden rise in the use of paper and ink. That person’s loyalties might not lie with the resistance.
The young man reached into the pocket of trousers too roomy for his skinny form, and he held up a slip of paper. “Here’s the information on where to take the printed papers and how to contactyour cut-out. Read it now, memorize it, and burn it here. Don’t show it to anyone, even her.” He nodded at Laila.
