The men deposited the scull in the boathouse and hurried up to the house.
In the study, Thorup picked up the phone. He jiggled the switch. “The line’s dead.”
“Dead?” Henrik grabbed the handset and depressed the switch over and over. Silence. “What on earth?”
“They cut the phone lines.” Thorup’s face grew stern. “The government, the Germans—someone doesn’t want us talking to each other.”
Henrik lunged for the radio across the room and turned it on.Static. Of course, it was only four thirty in the morning. He flipped to the Swedish station—static. To the BBC—static.
He thumped his palm on the radio cabinet. It was too early in the morning. Yet something heavy in the air told him everything had changed.
At the top of the pathway to Søllerød Kirke, Henrik shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
He had to intercept Else before the service. He had to tell her the news.
Unless she already knew. One look at her face would tell him whether she’d listened to the radio this morning.
Well-dressed congregants passed him, and some looked askance at Henrik’s sloppy attire.
The same way Else’s grandparents usually looked at him. They would look at him with even more disapproval if they knew he loved their precious granddaughter.
The Jensen family climbed the stone steps leading into the churchyard. Light glowed on Else’s hair and in her laughter.
Henrik had to douse that light.
She met his eye, and her smile deepened.
He cut his gaze away until the family approached the doors. Then he doffed his cap and smoothed his hair. “Good morning, Herre and Fru Jensen. Good morning, Else.”
“Good morning, Hemming.” Else gave him a curious tilt to her head. He never greeted them before church.
Henrik edited his warning into Hemming’s vocabulary. “I’m going home after church. You should too. There’s a curfew at nightfall.”
“Curfew?” Fru Jensen frowned at her husband. “We don’t have a curfew.”
“Today we have”—Henrik screwed up his face as if searching for the word—“martial law.”
“Martial law?” Else said.
Herre Jensen stepped beside his granddaughter. “Nonsense. There was nothing in the morning paper.”
Henrik shook his head. “Too soon. Just this morning. It was on the radio.”
Else’s grandfather flagged down a gentleman about his own age. “Excuse me, Herre Nielsen? Have you heard anything about martial law? Curfews?” Skepticism colored his voice.
“Martial law?” Herre Nielsen gasped. “Goodness, no.”
“Oh yes. I heard it on the radio.” A young brunette came over, hugging her Bible. “The Germans declared martial law. Isn’t it horrible?”
Henrik avoided Else’s gaze. Martial law had been declared at four o’clock, right before he heard the explosions—although he didn’t know what caused the noise.
A small crowd gathered around the Jensens, all talking at once.
“Curfew at nightfall—”
“They cut off telephone and telegraph and postal service—the nerve.”
“All strikes are banned under penalty of death.”
