She worked her way into traffic, made a sharp turn around the triangle, another onto Øster Allé, then swerved into the Fælledparken, onto the wooded path that ran behind the Institute for Theoretical Physics.
Under the trees, in the shadow of the beloved building, her breath came easier, but she didn’t ease up her pace.
She mapped a long and circuitous path home.
A few more glances behind her. Perhaps she’d lost him. But did he think her innocent or suspicious? Would he remember her face?
A tremble ran up her arms. What had she gotten herself into?
32
THEØRESUND
SUNDAY, AUGUST29, 1943
On the moonless night, the only light on the Øresund came from the lights of Sweden reflecting off patchy clouds. With each stroke of Henrik’s oars back to Vedbæk, that light faded.
Being active felt good. Only a few days on strike, and he was bored. He’d run errands and helped Fru Riber prepare for the return of the university students—all but Ib Malmstrøm.
Henrik’s helpfulness eased the landlady’s annoyance at the communists for deluding nice young men like Ib into dying for their cause—and at the shipyard strike, instigated by radicals and communists, she insisted.
Henrik, although the instigator, was neither.
Far more difficult than pacifying Fru Riber was avoiding Else. She knew something bothered him, and she kept giving him questioning looks.
She shouldn’t give him anything but the sisterly looks she’d given him before the kissing began. He couldn’t communicate back in case anyone were watching.
This afternoon—it was now Sunday—he’d tell Else how he’d berated Skov and warn her away from him.
Henrik paused to check his watch—4:13. Almost two hours until sunrise, and he gazed behind him to measure the thickness of the inky belt of Danish land against purple sky.
A muffled boom rose in the distance. Another. Another.
Oars still, Henrik frowned to the south toward Copenhagen. The sound reminded him of summer evenings at Lyd-af-Lys listening to the fireworks at Tivoli Gardens.
Except fireworks had been banned during the occupation.
Booms shuddered over the waters, shuddered into his muscles.
He hadn’t heard Allied bombers all night. Had the resistance set off bombs? After the attack on the Forum, surely they had no explosives left.
A glow pulsed low on the horizon. Something big had exploded in Copenhagen, but what? Who had done it?
He had to find out, and he threw himself into his stroke.
In a few minutes, he glided up to the pier, where Thorup waited for him.
Henrik hoisted himself out of the scull. “What’s happening?”
“Happening?”
“The explosions in Copenhagen.”
Thorup tipped his head. “I heard rumbles a few minutes ago, but I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Sound carries better over water, and I saw fires.” Henrik hauled the bow of the scull out of the water.
Thorup lifted the stern. “My friend works the night shift at the local police station. I’ll see if he knows anything.”
