How could he forgive such a man? A man who had never expressed regret for mistreating those he claimed to love. A harsh man. A sinner.
Henrik groaned and pushed up his sleeves against the midday heat. He was a sinner too, which was why he had to forgive—and apologize. But he couldn’t apologize during the occupation. And if he paid the price for resisting that occupation, he would never speak those words.
He headed to the carpenter shop. Men walked to their worksites after lunch, and engines rumbled in the giant cranes on their rails.
A gurgle built in his chest, and he coughed into his fist.
Not only had the pneumonia weakened him but it had set back his work. How many messages would he find this weekend on both sides of the Øresund? Good weather and moonless nights favored rowing, but did he possess the strength?
Dread pooled in his gummed-up lungs, but he had to make the run.
“Hej,Hemming.” Gunnar Skov ran up to him. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too.”
Skov repositioned his cap over hair in need of both a wash and a cut. “Koppel has no more excuses.”
Henrik cocked his head in confusion.
Skov glowered back over his shoulder. “Says we need your muscle for sabotage. I said we could do it without you, but he wouldn’t budge.”
“Koppel is in charge.”
“He keeps delaying.” He stepped closer to Henrik. “You and I—we can do it. You’ve got the muscles. I’ve got the brains.”
No, he didn’t. “Koppel knows best. He knows the right people.”
“Who needs them?” Skov said. “We need to act now.”
“Do it carefully. Do it well. Do it right. Live to do it again.”
Skov groaned and wagged his head back and forth. “I’m tired of hearing that.”
And Henrik was tired of saying it. “Are you with us or not?”
“I am. I am. Don’t worry.”
“Good.”
In the carpenter shop, Lars Koppel waited in the storeroom, sitting on a crate. “What’s the latest?”
Henrik pulled up a crate in the stuffy room. “I met with my contact last night.”
“Are we getting explosives? Training?”
“The English haven’t parachuted as many shipments as expected, and we’re having troubles transporting the materials from the drop sites in Jutland.” Henrik had given up limiting his speech with Koppel. He had too much to communicate.
“At least they’re putting the explosives to use in Jutland. That sabotage at the shipyard in Odense—look what happened.”
“I know.” Two days earlier, a saboteur had planted explosives aboard a German minelayer that was almost completed, damaging it. When the Germans brought in sabotage guards, the workers walked off the job. Strikes and riots were spreading throughout the region.
“It’s time for action here.” Koppel clenched his thick hands between his knees. “Time to show our government we no longer put up with them, how they cooperate with the Germans. We’d rather have the government fall, no matter the price. Those politicians ought to be ashamed of themselves. The world thinks Denmark is spineless.”
More and more, Henrik heard from ordinary Danes willing to endure brutal Nazi conditions in order to regain dignity and honor. While he agreed, he needed to return to the topic at hand. “Two of our ships are due to launch on August 6. We need to act before then.”
“Yes, but how?”
“We need enough moonlight to see what we’re doing. The best conditions fall after that date, but we can make do on August 4 or 5.”
