A Way Through the Sea (17 page)

This ramp was not a place of good memories, after Henrik’s tumble and arm breaking. Henrik stopped for a moment, turned and handed Peter something in the dark. “Here, carry this, would you?” he asked softly. “My hands are full.”

The fishing basket didn’t feel heavy, but there was something inside that moved a little. “What are we doing with the bird?” Peter whispered as they climbed down the ramp again, this time a little slower, a little more carefully.

“Number One,” Henrik explained. “I found out he’s Jewish, too, so he has to come along.”

A Way Through the Sea

14

“Here, I’ll row first,” said Peter as he set up the oars. Elise didn’t argue; she just nodded and settled into the stern, the back end, of the boat. She would get her turn in the long row ahead. Actually, Henrik was a much better rower than either of them, when he could use both arms. Peter tended to make a lot more splashes, a lot more noise. Elise was a pretty smooth rower, but not quite as strong. They used to go out rowing more often when they were younger, but lately Elise had stayed home, for her own reasons.

No one said anything about German guards, although all three of them knew the men were probably all around the harbor, watching. At least it was dark, especially when the little moon disappeared behind the clouds. That was happening more and more. Peter looked up as it disappeared again.
I’m not sure how we’re going to get out of this one. What happens if we’re caught?

Henrik, who was in the front of the boat, took a deep breath. Peter heard it from his rowing seat.

“Ready?” whispered Henrik.

“I’m ready,” said Peter.

Elise had the pigeon basket with her in the back, the stern seat. She put it down for a moment, reached out, and fumbled to pull the boat around a couple of ropes hanging in the water by the dock. They got tangled around the boat, and she glanced about nervously as she worked to get them undone. Elise finally got the lines untangled and pulled her hands back into the boat. “Let’s go, Peter,” she whispered.

First they had to maneuver around and between the small fishing fleet. It wasn’t large because there were quite a few more workboats—big ships and ferries—around this harbor. Always Peter kept the boat in the darkest shadows, behind the boats that were floated together. It was slower going, but he knew all the hiding places. Once, when a light swept the harbor for a moment, he let his oars freeze. They glided past a big black sailing schooner, almost scraping the hull. Then the light was gone, and they crept on.

Peter paused again for a moment, listening to something. He thought he heard voices again. Henrik and Elise turned around and looked, so they must have heard them, too. Then it was quiet again—only the sound of the waves, a little squeak from Peter’s rowing, and the ripple of water as they moved through the harbor.

Henrik leaned toward Peter’s ear. “Do you believe in angels?” He said it so softly Peter wasn’t really sure what he said. Last week, or at least before he went out on that fishing trip with his uncle, Peter might have laughed at the question. Now he wasn’t so sure that there might not be some, if he just knew where to look.
If there are any angels in the neighborhood,
thought Peter, pulling quietly on the oars,
we’ve probably been tripping over them all night.

From the backseat, Elise was the only one who could see exactly where they were headed. So pretty soon, they developed a pattern: Peter rowed, and Elise steered her brother out of the harbor by tapping either his right or his left ankle with her foot. He would pull more in whichever direction she tapped. Peter could have been blind, and he felt as if he were.
Maybe the guards are blind, too,
thought Peter as he pulled once more.
And deaf. They haven’t stopped us... yet.

Peter never could explain how they got out of the harbor without attracting any more attention. But he knew they were past the breakwater when the waves started feeling different. Gradually, he started to get the hang of the rowing, started to get into a stronger, steadier stroke. Pull, rest, recover, pull again. Up one wave swell, then down another.

In the darkness, foam from the waves gurgled by the side of the boat and lit up when the moon peeked from behind the clouds. As Peter got to rowing more steadily, they washed over each wave with a little sideways shimmy. They were going across the Sound, and the waves were coming down the Sound, coming from the darkness, the way all ships came in, from the open ocean. If it had been a calmer night, they might have slipped across without any trouble. But the wind and chop kept hitting them at just the wrong time, pushing the bow of the boat around, sometimes sending salty, icy, stinging spray all over them, and especially all over Henrik. He didn’t say a word; he just hung on with one hand, and tucked the other hand underneath his arm, trying to keep warm. Pretty soon, though, he couldn’t stop shivering. It was getting windier.

“Can you see the lights?” Peter asked Elise for about the tenth time. Only when they were out on the open water did anyone dare to speak again above a whisper. They had been whispering and hissing all night, it seemed.

“Always,” she replied. “You’re doing a good job.”

A particularly big wave hit the boat just then, jolting the bow up out of the water. Instead of pulling water, there was only air for Peter’s right oar. He pulled back hard in the darkness and fell over backwards with a clatter.

“Whoa!” he called, flat on his back in the front of the boat, at Henrik’s feet.

Henrik lost his grip and fell over, too, from the rocking of the boat. Elise held on tight to the pigeon basket and managed to stay in her seat.

“Hang on!” yelled Henrik, but no one needed the advice. He was trying to get back up at the same time Peter was, while their little boat was rocking like an out of control carousel horse.

Elise was the only one who saw the moonlit pile of foam—about twice as tall as the boat—as it was just about to wash over them. She ducked down, clutching the basket tightly, and closed her eyes. “Peter!” she yelled.

It took everyone a minute to figure out what was happening after the big wave washed through. It didn’t so much pound over on top of them, like a wave on a beach does to someone building a sand castle, but it barreled through like a big wet freight train, leaving buckets full of seawater in their little boat. They twirled around two or three times. When Peter looked back out to get his direction, they were pointed straight back at dark Denmark—away from the lights of Sweden.

Elise pulled the pigeon basket out of the ice cold slosh—it was now around their ankles—and put the poor bird back up on the seat with her. The bird was probably soaked to the feather and as cold as they were. Still, they remained floating, and they had thought ahead.

“Good thing we remembered a bailing bucket,” Peter said. Henrik wasn’t wasting any time. He was back in his seat, bailing buckets over the side.

“I’ll get us dried out in just a couple of minutes,” he said. “You saw that we got turned around, right?”

“Yep,” replied Peter in a cold whisper. But he didn’t say it very loudly at all. He just sat there, not knowing what to do.

“What did you say?” asked Elise.

Henrik looked up for a second from his bailing. “Why don’t you start rowing again? We’re okay.”

Peter still didn’t move. “I said yeah, I know we’re turned around, and I know we’re full of water, and I know we only have one oar.”

Henrik stopped bailing, then looked over the side in disgust. Even Elise groaned.

“The oar, though,” said Peter, with just a little hope in his voice. “Maybe it’s somewhere close by?”

“Can you see it?” Elise said in a tired voice.

Peter looked all around the boat, hoping for a miracle, but he could hardly even tell where they were.
Where are those angels when you need them?
he thought.

It was nowhere. The oar was just gone. So as Henrik continued to pour water over the side, Peter turned around in his seat and tried to paddle the boat like a canoe. It didn’t work very well, but he paddled in a circle so at least they were facing the right direction again, toward Sweden. The waves were really bouncing the little boat around now that they were just sitting there.

“How far out do you think we made it?” asked Peter.

Henrik didn’t answer, but Elise scanned the water between their boat and the lights. It was hard to tell the distance in the darkness. “Almost halfway, if we’re lucky,” she guessed.

Peter jammed his oar into the water, disgusted. He wasn’t ready to give up, but he was starting to feel tempted.
Yeah, we’ve been lucky so far. But not now. Not anymore.

For a while no one said anything. Henrik kept bailing water, dodging out of Peter’s way as he struggled with the oar. All of them were feeling sick to their stomachs by that time.

Elise kept the bird basket on her lap, whispering to the homing pigeon. “You’re going to be fine,” she told the bird. “Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be there.” She wished she could believe it herself.

“So what would your uncle the sailor do now?” Henrik asked.

Peter paused for a minute. He was out of ideas—really out of ideas—and he knew he wasn’t doing too well with just one oar. The waves seemed like they were pushing the boat back to Denmark, farther away from where they wanted to go. But it was hard to tell. He looked around again, trying to figure where they were.
This isn’t working.

“He would pray,” said Peter finally. “But he probably would have prayed a long time ago. Maybe that’s where we went wrong.”

When no one said anything else, Peter went back to his paddling. He tried to remember what his uncle had prayed in the room full of Jewish people.
Something about a way through the water? A way through the sea?
Elise would remember. He didn’t want to say anything else, though, so he kept quiet. Somehow, it seemed too long ago, too far away.

“Peter,” said Elise. “My turn to row now, okay?”

“You mean paddle, and this is useless,” replied Peter. “But I’m still fine. Take over in five minutes.”

Finally Peter started to make the boat move just a little, but it was still a zigzag course. Henrik would have done a lot better if he could have used his arms. As it was, all he could do was bail a little water out with his good arm. And the waves—maybe not as big now but still scary—kept pounding the boat, tossing icy spray at them, keeping them soaked and shivering. Peter thought about home for a second.
What a nightmare this is!

Then he let his thoughts drift back to his uncle and the prayer he couldn’t remember.
So why not pray? What could it hurt?
In between paddles, he closed his eyes, trying to remember some good prayer words. His mind was blank, though, so he finally gave up and just started to pray as if he were talking to someone.

As I’m sure you can tell, God, we’re looking for some help. This hasn’t turned out right—this is awful.
Another wave sprayed him straight in the face. Even with his heavy coat, he was already soaked, so he just winced and kept paddling. Maybe they were moving, just a little.
I’m not sure, God, if you’re into making deals. But...
Peter looked around at the blackness and the waves that didn’t stop. Another one hissed by, white foam on the top.
But, God, like I said, we need some help, any kind of help.
That was all he could think of. End of prayer.

“Are you talking to yourself?” asked Henrik from the front of the boat. He was curled up now, after bailing out most of the water.

Peter hadn’t realized he was talking out loud. Feeling embarrassed, he tried to play dumb. “Huh, what?”

“You were mumbling,” said Henrik. “Talking to yourself.”

Peter tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound stupid. Instead, he started rambling. “Don’t you wish we had a flashlight so we could find the oar?” he said. “I mean, if it were daylight, we’d have no problem seeing it. It’s probably just a few feet from us, floating around, but we can’t see any farther than we can reach.”

“Yeah,” agreed Henrik. “Of course, if this little trip was in the daylight, all the Germans would get a pretty good look at us.”

Peter kept paddling, wiggling the boat back and forth. Then Elise put her hand out to stop him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I think I hear something,” she whispered back. “Do you hear it, Henrik?”

Henrik paused. “Yeah, I hear it,” he answered from the front of the boat.

Peter listened, and he thought he could hear it too, in the distance. He wasn’t even sure which direction it was coming from, but there it was: a low rumbling sound, far across the water. He thought maybe it was coming from the direction of Denmark, but he wasn’t sure. It was slowly getting louder and louder, and it definitely wasn’t the
ka chunk
of a local fishing boat.

“It’s getting closer,” whispered Elise. They were back to whispers. “Think it’s Uncle Morten?”

Peter knew what it was now, and so did the others. He wished it
were
Uncle Morten, but it was the unmistakable, steady hum of a patrol boat. It was still a ways off, though, and the rowboat rocked in the swells. A piece of driftwood bumped into the side of their little boat.

“Hey, would you look at that,” Henrik whispered again, this time real low. Peter and Elise could see it, too, almost directly behind them. A red orange glow, now brighter, now moving just a little bit, kind of like a flag. A cigarette. And it wasn’t anyone on Uncle Morten’s boat, that was for sure.

“No cigarettes,” Uncle Morten had warned the house full of Jews the night before in the Andersen living room. Peter thought back.
Was it just last night? Or last year?