Else strode down the hall to the stairway, passing Bohr’s office. How long since Bohr had invited her in for a chat? Months.
A low moan rose. If she failed to advance, she’d have to findanother position where she could start fresh. But with the war on, where could she go?
Down in the mimeograph room, Else pulled on rubber gloves and set up the machine. With plenty of paper on one side, she cranked the handle, over and over. Copies ofFrit Danmarkshot into the collecting tray.
Else blinked away the dampness in her eyes. If she lost her position at the institute, she also wouldn’t be able to print the paper.
Resistance activities had risen sharply in July, and the paper’s circulation had increased. People craved news.
Else picked up a completed page and read as she cranked. The Italian government had deposed Mussolini and imprisoned him, depriving Hitler of his oldest ally.
Another article trumpeted sabotage at the Citroën factory in Copenhagen. But another listed freedom fighters arrested in a police raid—four university students. One had jumped out of a window to escape and had died of his injuries—Ib Malmstrøm.
“Ib Malmstrøm!” Else swayed and grasped the table for support. Ib? From the boardinghouse? She’d found him superficial and annoying—but he’d died. Died for Denmark.
“Excuse me, Jensen.” A German accent.
Else slapped the paper down in the collecting tray and spun around.
Manfred Gebhardt stood in the doorway, and his dark hair stuck up as usual. “When I returned to the lab, everyone had left. Mrs. Iversen asked me to tell you she needs twelve copies, not ten.”
“Thank you.” Else’s voice wavered, and she edged her backside along the table, trying to conceal the papers in the collecting tray.
Gebhardt frowned. “Are you all right?”
Tears for Ib clung to her eyelashes. What if Mrs. Iversen told Gebhardt how Mortensen left her name off the paper? He’d think her unprofessional to shed tears.
Else raised a wobbly smile. “It’s something personal. Thank you for your concern.”
He nodded, then glanced past her. “That’s more than twelve copies.”
She waved her hand and gave a feeble laugh. “Oh, this is for another lab. When people know you can use the mimeograph machine, everyone wants copies.”
Could he see her nervousness? Hear the bluff in her voice? She tipped her chin toward the machine. “I’d better get back to work. Thanks for the message.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He bowed his head and departed.
Else spun around and pictured the room from where he’d stood. How much had he seen? Enough to see she was printing a newspaper, not a journal article?
She rested against the doorjamb, her eyes shut, her breath erratic. Gebhardt never talked of politics, and Bohr didn’t welcome those who embraced Nazi ideology.
That didn’t mean Gebhardt could be trusted.
Even though Bohr was half-Jewish, Germany allowed the institute to remain open. Partly due to Bohr’s popularity at home and abroad, and partly so German physicists could visit and benefit from Bohr’s wisdom. And Germany didn’t tolerate anyone who opposed Nazi ideology.
Else groaned. She could only pray Gebhardt hadn’t seen anything incriminating.
23
FRIDAY, JULY30, 1943
Henrik’s plan might work. Six cargo ships under construction rose before him at the shipyard. Wooden scaffolding encased each hull, with minimal space between ships, a weakness he could exploit.
However, four Danish sabotage guards prowled the shipyard. Armed. Watching.
Henrik’s father had hired the guards, perhaps compelled by the Germans, but he’d conceded.
A betrayal to the Danish people, a betrayal Henrik felt in his gut. Men like Ib Malmstrøm died fighting the Germans—Henrik still couldn’t believe the young man was dead—but Frederik Ahlefeldt worked with the Germans.
