“You—you’re not fine.”
“No.” Henrik could barely open the door. “I’m not.”
20
COPENHAGEN
TUESDAY, JULY6, 1943
The atrium of Havemanns Magasin soared four stories above as Else and Laila strolled past sleek glass display cases in the modern department store.
After work, they’d indulged in new summer blouses—Laila’s in butter yellow, Else’s in minty blue.
Else opened the door for her friend, and they stepped outside into the warm sunshine on Vesterbrogade. The street was empty. Only a handful of pedestrians—running.
Else’s breath caught.
A young man ran down the street, assisting a young lady who cradled her arm to her chest. A crimson trail ran down her cheek.
“Oh my goodness!” Else fumbled for Laila’s arm, found it, gripped it.
“What on earth?” Laila shrank back toward the display window.
“Take off that hat!” Two men chased the couple. The men wore the hated uniforms of the Frikorps Danmark, the brigade of volunteers who fought for Nazi Germany.
“Her hat. Look.” Laila pointed at the injured woman, who wore a flat knit cap in red, white, and blue concentric circles—the roundel of the British Royal Air Force.
Else had seen similar caps, a sign of solidarity with the Allies and a taunt to the Germans.
“You’re traitors of your country,” the woman cried over her shoulder.
“You’re traitors of your race.” One of the Frikorps men brandished a stick.
The couple tore around the corner and blended into a crowd with the soldiers on their heels. Yelling rose from the crowd. Disordered sounds of thumping feet.
Laila clutched her package to her stomach. “It—it’s a riot.”
“We’d better go the other way.” Else hurried down Vesterbrogade in the opposite direction.
But the intersection ahead teemed with tumult.
“Oh no.” Else stopped hard. “We’re trapped.”
The crowd swarmed toward them, thundered toward them, swallowed them like an amoeba.
“Stay together.” Laila gripped Else’s hand.
Else ran by her friend’s side. The crowd jostled her.
Men and women shouted insults against the Germans, the Frikorps, the Schalburg Corps, and the Danish Nazis.
One man slugged another, and he tumbled toward Laila.
Else yanked her hand and threaded through a narrow opening in the crowd. “This way.”
“You’re taller,” Laila shouted. “Can you see the end?”
“No.” She added a jump to her step. If only Hemming were there. He could see over any crowd. And he’d protect them.
