“That’s the way, boys,” Koppel said. “That’s the smart thing to do.”
Koppel edged forward, and the workers followed him through the gate. Most ignored the guards, but some glared at them.
Henrik averted his gaze as he did whenever he saw the man he’d captured, in case something triggered the man’s memory.
A few feet ahead of Henrik, Gunnar Skov worked his way over to that same guard. Shoved him. “Someday we’ll kick out the Germans, wait and see. And we’ll remember your names. You’ll pay.”
Heat filled Henrik’s chest like a bellows. What was Skov thinking? He could be recognized. Shot.
And if Henrik intervened, the chance of recognition exploded.
Someone else needed to help.
Frantically, he searched the crowd. He needed two men—strong, authoritative, who hadn’t been on the raid. There! “Eriksen! Blom! Stop Skov.”
Eriksen was already grabbing Skov’s arm, Blom elbowed forward and grabbed the other, and they manhandled the hothead through the gate.
Outside, the crowd dispersed. A safe distance from the gate, Eriksen and Blom released Skov, but Henrik grabbed his sinewy arm and hauled him away, ignoring his cussing protests.
“What were you thinking?” Henrik stepped right into Skov’s face. “Koppel got them to back down, and you—you antagonized them.”
“They’re traitors.” Skov’s eyes burned.
“What if he’d recognized you?” A growl entered Henrik’s voice. “Your build, your walk?”
“Ah, you’re worrying for nothing.” He shook his arm.
Henrik clamped down. “You could have gotten a lot of men shot. You could have gotten us arrested. You’re an idiot. A stupid idiot. A sorry excuse of a man. A waste of life—”
His father’s words. In Henrik’s mouth.
He gasped and dropped Skov’s arm. What had he done? He spun and strode away. “Go home, Skov. Go home.”
Henrik could barely see the path. He’d been harsh. Insulting. Everything he hated in his father.
The smallest step into leadership, and this was what he’d become?
He groaned and wiped at his mouth.
If he couldn’t be trusted with leadership, how could he be trusted with Else’s heart?
SATURDAY, AUGUST28, 1943
Sunday couldn’t come soon enough. Else bicycled down the street in the light rain. A week had passed without Mortensen asking for copies, without an excuse to visit the mimeograph room.
Finally Mrs. Iversen had contacted her. Why had Mortensen waited until the Saturday half day? Between the time it took to print six hundred copies ofFrit Danmarkand the time to deliver, she wouldn’t arrive in Søllerød until late afternoon.
But nothing would keep her away this weekend. For the first part of the week, she’d anticipated sweet togetherness. Since Wednesday, she’d experienced a burning need to find out what was wrong with Hemming.
After a quick scan of the street, Else pulled her bike into thelobby of the building. Since the strike began, Hemming had been quieter than usual, and he sometimes gave Else a pained look. Not painedather, but as if he hurtforher.
She shoved down her raincoat hood and climbed the stairs to the dentist’s office. Her briefcase weighed down her shoulder and Hemming weighed down her mind.
In the dentist’s office, two men sat in the waiting room. Else approached the receptionist. “Good afternoon. I fell off my bicycle and chipped my tooth. May I see the dentist?”
The receptionist gave her a stiff smile. “I’m sorry. The dentist is too busy to see you. These two gentlemen arrived before you.”
What? That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. That was what she was supposed to say if it wasn’t safe to make the drop.
