“Nej. It’ll take weeks.”
“Weeks?” Fru Riber clucked her tongue. “Only two ships were damaged.”
“We have to—change—the scaffolding.” Hemming pushed his empty plate away. “It’s burnt. It’s weak.”
Else suppressed a smile. The resistance had succeeded.
Fru Riber stood to clear the dishes. “Such times we live in. Riots and sabotage and shootings. Now we have food shortages.”
Else gave a noncommittal murmur. Denmark had the best food situation in Europe, better even than Germany, she’d heard.
She helped the landlady clear the table and gave Hemming what she hoped was a cheery smile as she took his plate.
In the kitchen, she helped wash dishes, while Fru Riber talked about her difficulties finding pork for dinner. Meanwhile, the Germans took what they wanted—not that she was complaining, mind you.
The chatter and activity occupied Else’s mind. How could she stay distracted the rest of the evening? If she read, her mind would wander to the dreaded topic. But if she read in her room, at least she’d fall apart in private. That seemed the best plan.
“Thank you for your help.” Fru Riber slid her baking pan onto the shelf. “You’re such a dear. Good night.”
“Good night.” She followed the older woman out through the dining room and into the living room.
Hemming sat at his usual chair with a black garment across his lap. “Good night, Fru.”
“Good night.” The landlady stepped out into the hall.
Else went to follow her.
But Hemming fixed her with an expectant look. “Do you have a needle? Thread? I need to fix my jacket.”
Else found a smile. “I’ll fetch my sewing box.”
She trotted upstairs to her room, brought down her sewing box, and set it on the table in front of Hemming. “Needles are here, black thread, scissors. You can set the box outside my door when you’re done.”
“All right.” He picked up the spool of thread and frowned at it.
A smile tickled Else’s lips. “Do you know how to sew?”
“I can—I can do it.”
“If you’d like, I could do it for you.”
His gaze flew up to her, and his blue eyes flooded with relief.
Else’s escape to her room would be delayed, but as long as she fell asleep—or pretended to—before Laila came home, she could avoid probing questions about her day.
She pulled a chair beside Hemming and sat.
“Tak.” He handed the jacket to her.
A gash ran about eight inches down the back, starting near the collar. “Oh my. How did this happen?”
“At work.”
“I should be able to fix it.” The jacket wasn’t lined, so she flipped it inside out, pulled the ragged edges to the wrong side, and pinned them together.
Hemming crossed his big arms on top of the table. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” Pretending to misunderstand, she gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I like mending.”
