“What would you like me to read?” She pulled a newspaper and a few books from the tray. “I brought the newspaper. I could read about how the Americans and British are advancing in Sicily—that’s part of Italy. Or how the Soviets drove back the Germans at Kursk—that’s in Russia.”
She held up a copy ofBerlingske Tidende, a mainstream newspaper. The reporters did their best to report truthfully despite Germans watching over their shoulders—not censoring, they insisted. According to Svend, many BT reporters secretly fed articles to the illegal papers.
Those illegal papers provided a more balanced view, detailing both the successes and failures of the Allies, plus the successes and failures of the Danish resistance. But Fru Riber didn’t tolerate such papers in her house. And sweet Else wasn’t the sort to defy rules.
The news only made him restless to get back into action. “Did you bring the fairy tales?”
She grinned and held up the Hans Christian Andersen book. “I could use a fairy tale.”
Henrik could too, and he spooned up more soup.
Else thumbed through. “Granted, many of Andersen’s stories are tragic. Now, where were we? ‘Den Lille Havfrue.’ Oh dear. That’s a sad story.”
“I like it.” And Andersen’s controversial ending to the Little Mermaid’s tale did carry an element of hope.
Else read the story with animation and passion. He loved listening to her. He loved ... her. The past week of her tender care had cemented his affections.
She showed care for a man she certainly deemed her social and intellectual inferior. As much as he longed to engage her in true conversation, if he did, he’d lose the magic of listening.
As the story progressed, something struck him hard. The Little Mermaid gave up her voice, not realizing her voice was required to claim the attention of the man she loved.
The comparison knifed into his lungs, and coughs bled out of the gaping wound.
When he finished, he drank tea to soothe his roughened throat.
Else looked at him with compassion. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” No, he wasn’t. Without his true voice, he could never claim the attention of the woman he loved.
Hemming Andersen wasn’t enough for her. Henrik Ahlefeldt wasn’t good enough for her.
And the Havmand...?
Like the Lille Havfrue, the Havmand would someday dissolve into seafoam and cease to exist.
22
MONDAY, JULY26, 1943
In the laboratory, Else wound wire around the solenoid and glanced at the clock. Tonight she needed to mimeograph Mortensen’s article—the one including her breakthrough—plus six hundred copies of a page ofFrit Danmark.
She’d be late for dinner, and her heart flipped over. Would she have a private dinner with Hemming?
Every day he regained strength, and soon he’d return to work. As good as it was to see him at the table again, she missed reading together in his room.
Else clipped the wire. Those evenings had been so pleasant, with her joy in reading magnified by his enjoyment in listening.
Occasionally she’d seen glimpses of greater insight and intelligence beneath his quiet surface. But maybe her crush had created that perception in her imagination.
Was it wrong to long for future evenings with him? Perhaps by a fireplace, with Else cuddled by his side, reading. Maybe he’d stroke her hair. Would his beard feel scratchy or soft?
Her cheeks flared with heat. Oh dear. She was in a bad way.
“Good night, Jensen.” Kaj Knudsen grinned at her. “Gebhardt went to the stockroom for more wire. Why don’t we start again in the morning?”
Else straightened to standing. “Good idea. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Knudsen waved and left the lab.
