Nyholm flipped up both hands. “No harm meant. So what do you do at night? Just go home?”
“I like quiet.”
Nyholm nudged Rasmussen. “Then he certainly doesn’t want a wife.”
Some laughed. Some didn’t. And Henrik closed his eyes to conceal the rolling.
Nyholm was mistaken not only about marriage but about Henrik.
He did want a wife.
Some evenings he could imagine what it might be like. The evenings he came home late and found Else had saved a plate for him. She’d also been working late recently and often ate with him. Sometimes Laila joined them.
Else would chat about interesting topics in simple speech, ask questions of Henrik, and wait patiently for him to formulate his reply.
He craved the evenings with her. Dreaded them. Longed to be known. Feared being known.
Thoughts of Else filled his journal more each day, filled his head. He’d been in love once, long ago, but this felt more intense. Yet he, as Henrik, had never conversed with her. She knew nothing about him. Which was how it had to be.
After lunch, he and his coworkers went back to the shipways, where they were building temporary scaffolding inside the hull of a cargo ship.
In the warm sunshine, Henrik rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows and climbed up the exterior scaffolding, then down inside the hull.
Gunnar Skov picked up an electric drill. Instead of heading toward the scaffolding, he squatted close to the hull. He craned his neck around, caught Henrik’s eye, and gave him a mischievous look. Then he fired up the drill and aimed for the hull.
Steam filled Henrik’s chest and billowed in his head. He bargedforward and grabbed Skov’s arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He heard his father in his disgusted fury, saw his own young self in Skov’s wide eyes.
The shock of it slammed Henrik in the gut, and he dropped Skov’s arm—but not the question. “What are you doing?”
Skov beckoned Henrik down to his level, and Henrik squatted.
A lock of dirty blond hair hung on Skov’s forehead. “I’m drilling a hole so the ship will sink.”
What on earth was he thinking? “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
Henrik fought the billowing steam. “The inspector will see it.”
Skov’s cheeks reddened. “We’re supposed to commit sabotage. They keep saying they’ll give us supplies, but they don’t. I’ll just do it myself.” His voice hissed out.
“You will not.” He understood Skov’s frustration. The SOE promised more than they delivered. Although Henrik had organized crews at several shipyards, no one had been trained or equipped. “You’ll be kicked out of the group.”
Skov’s nostrils flared. “You’re not the boss. Koppel is.”
Henrik had more authority than that, but at Ahlefeldt’s, only Koppel knew Henrik was the liaison. “If Koppel saw, he’d kick you off. Wait. Do it carefully, do it well, do it right.”
Skov hefted the drill in his hand, then set it down. “I liked it better when you didn’t talk.”
So did Henrik. He pushed up to standing and left Skov behind. Silence ensured secrecy. Silence prevented harsh words like the ones he’d directed at Skov.
Leadership required speech, but good leadership required good speech. A rueful smile rose. “Speak carefully. Speak well. Speak right.”
“Andersen!” Anton Blom leaned over the side of the hull. “Koppel wants to talk to you, down by the carpenter shop.”
Henrik raised a hand in acknowledgment and climbed out.
