A Way Through the Sea (7 page)

Peter and Elise had never been there before, but Uncle Morten had said it was full of woods and lakes, even a few mountains. Just across the Sound. Peter listened hard for anything that sounded like the ocean—the
chug cough
of a fishing boat, or the squeal of a gull. But all he heard were voices in the next room, his parents discussing something, and then a shuffling sound coming under his door.

Elise. It has to be.
He looked down and saw the note she had stuck under his door. He rolled over onto his stomach and reached for it.

“Peter, Dead Lily looks lovely on you. Just your color. P.S. I think I’ve figured out what Uncle Morten was doing in the woods.”

She had? He wadded up the note, yanked open the door, and charged down the hall after her. Just then, Mr. Andersen stepped out into the hallway from the living room, and they nearly collided.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“No... yeah, I mean,” Peter stuffed the note into his pocket. Talking with his father about Uncle Morten was one of the last things he wanted to do. “Um, I better go to the bathroom before I go to bed,” he mumbled. “Clean up a little.”

“It’s back the other way, Peter,” his dad said. “But we’ll say good night to you here. You know we love you, even when you’re in trouble.”

“I know, Dad,” he said as he disappeared into the bathroom. “I love you, too.”

As he lay in bed a few minutes later, Peter couldn’t keep his mind on the history book he was reading. He kept thinking about Uncle Morten. Uncle Morten the pirate. Uncle Morten the gambler. Uncle Morten the Resistance fighter. Which one was he? Then he caught himself.
Don’t think about it. It’s none of your business, anyway.

What didn’t make any sense to Peter was that his Uncle Morten was supposed to be the one who was the most religious in the family, the one who sometimes talked about prayer meetings, that kind of thing. Once, a couple of years ago, Peter and Elise had even gone with him to a Thursday night meeting at a small house church on Belvedere Way, on the edge of town. Just out of curiosity.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He stuck a finger in his book and looked up.

“Peter, can I come in?” It was Elise.

“Sure.” He was still curious about her note but tried not to be.

Elise cracked open the door and leaned against the side of the doorway without coming in. “So did you get my note?” she asked.

“Yeah, I got it. You’re just like Henrik. Why can’t you two forget about the whole thing?”

“Forget about it?” she said, her voice going above a whisper. “Are you kidding? Don’t you want to know?”

“Not really,” he said, opening up his book to where he left off. “I just want to read my book and not get in trouble.”

“Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “Listen, there’s only one thing it could have been.”

“We’re still talking about Uncle Morten in the woods with the Swedish guy, right?”

“Of course, silly. Now look. Uncle M couldn’t have been doing anything wrong, not even gambling. It has to be the Underground.”

“Has to be?” Peter knew she was right, just like he knew Henrik had been right about this. Still, he had a hard time imagining his uncle sneaking around.

“Yes, has to be. The Swedish man was a contact, and Uncle Morten probably helps to ferry people and things back and forth. The money we saw was to help pay for gas and things.”

Peter thought it sounded right. But how could she be so sure? And even if their uncle was involved in it somehow, there was no way he would ever tell them. It would be too dangerous for anyone to know, especially his family.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe you’re right. But so what? We better not say anything about it to anyone. And besides, we’ll probably never know for sure.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed, “but at least we have a good idea.”

Peter didn’t say anything for a while, and Elise fidgeted by the door. She kept glancing toward the living room, where their parents were still talking quietly.

“I don’t really like to think about it, Elise,” said Peter finally. “But I’m glad you figured it out.” He was—kind of.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Well, good night.” She closed the door quietly and padded down the hall to her room.

“Good night, sis. Thanks.”
Elise the detective,
thought Peter.
I wish she would figure out why Mom and Dad are so grouchy all the time.

Not all the time, but it was true that their parents didn’t smile or joke much anymore. Mr. Andersen worried a lot, and he yelled a lot more than he used to. Mrs. Andersen fussed about their food. It was like a dark cloud was hanging over their kitchen table much of the time. Peter put down his book and fell asleep, trying not to think about the war... again.

Tangled Up

6

With the fall came school, war or no war. For Peter, Elise, and Henrik that meant there were only the weekends for biking and hiking around, taking the pigeons out for trips, being kids. And even though they had their ideas, they still hadn’t figured out who the Swede in the woods was, or exactly why Uncle Morten was meeting him there. At least not for sure.

Peter didn’t think about that as he walked to the boathouse before school. It was his turn to feed the birds and check their water. Even though it was still only September, he could see his breath that morning, and he pretended he was a steam train as he walked down to the waterfront. As usual, his grandfather was puttering around in the shed.

“Morning, Grandpa,” he called as he pushed open the door. Peter’s grandfather looked up from his perch on a barrel. Like any good fisherman—even though he was mostly retired—he worked a lot on his nets and ropes, things like that. Peter measured out five handfuls of hard corn from the big sack on a shelf, then checked the water bowl. Grandfather had built a cover for the bowl so the birds wouldn’t mess it up or tip it over, and they could stick their little necks in to get a drink. Pigeons are one of the only birds that can drink out of their beaks like a straw, which Peter always thought was fun to watch. Most other birds have to get a mouthful and tip it back to drink.

The birds fluttered around Peter’s feet as he tiptoed around the coop. He could see they were going to have to do some serious cleaning pretty soon.

“Hey, Peter,” said Grandfather as Peter finished his chore. “Your uncle needs a crewman or two to help him this weekend.” He cleared his throat. “And I can’t make it. Just a few hours tomorrow. Saturday. Short trip. You available?”

Who was he kidding? Peter had wanted to go out with his uncle and grandfather for as long as he could remember. But his parents had never let him—yet—and he had really never been asked. “Sure, Grandpa,” he replied, “but—"

“I already talked to your father,” he interrupted. “And we agreed you were old enough to go out this time. You won’t be staying out overnight or anything. Your uncle leaves at six thirty.”

“Fantastic!” yelled Peter, closing the door to the coop. Then he stopped short. “But what about Elise and Henrik? You think his parents would let him come, too?”

“That’s up to them. You can ask. Elise can come, too, if she wants. I’m just not sure if she does. Ask her at school today.” Peter’s grandfather smiled, then waved Peter out the door. “Out with you now, or you’ll be late for school.”

“School. Oh, yeah.” Peter remembered that Henrik would be waiting for him by the big Saint Mary’s church, a couple of blocks from school. Now he would have to run to make it on time—as usual. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning. Six o’clock.”

“Don’t be late,” Grandfather called after him as Peter ran out the door. “Your uncle will be waiting for you.”

Peter hardly heard.
Wait until I tell Henrik and Elise!

He met up with Henrik at the church, where the other boy was waiting impatiently.

“What took you so long?” asked Henrik, kicking a pebble down the street.

“I had to talk to Grandfather about something,” said Peter. “He asked if we wanted to go out on the boat Saturday.”

Henrik’s eyes grew wide. “No kidding? And it’s okay with your folks?”

“He said he already talked with them and everything, and that if it’s okay with your parents...”

Henrik winced. “I don’t know, Peter. But we can try. You know how my parents are. What about your sister?”

“Did someone mention my name?” said Elise, who had just run up behind the boys on her way down the street. As usual, she had an armload of books, too many to keep in her red school backpack. She had Mrs. Becker, the other fifth grade teacher, in the classroom next to Henrik’s and Peter’s.

Henrik wheeled around, surprised. Elise usually walked to school with her girl friends. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.

“Of course it’s me,” said Elise, in a teasing manner. “So what did you mean, `What about your sister?’ “

“Grandpa just asked me this morning when I was feeding the birds if we wanted to go out on their boat tomorrow,” said Peter. “He said Mom and Dad told him it was okay.”

“Great!” she said, pulling at the strap of her backpack while she balanced her extra books in the other hand. “But do you think Henrik’s parents will say yes?” She looked quickly over at Henrik, who was kicking the pebble again.

“Maybe,” said Peter, feeling hopeful. He was already thinking of all the foot long herring his uncle and grandfather sometimes returned with. The little silvery fish were everybody’s favorite, pickled and sliced on dark rye bread. It was something every Dane learned to eat, almost before they could walk.

“Yeah, and maybe Mr. Jensen will cancel school today and give us a big party,” said Henrik. He was smiling, but he and Peter both knew his chances were slim.

Elise ran on ahead. Henrik and Peter made it to school—a large, three story brick building on King Street—just as the principal, Mr. Jensen, was closing the doors.

“Just in time again, boys,” he observed in his big bass drum voice. They made it to their classroom on the second floor just as the bell rang.

“No party,” whispered Henrik, as they slipped into their seats.

No sooner had he sat down than Peter began daydreaming of going out on the boat the next day. He still couldn’t believe it—not having to talk his parents into anything.
Incredible.
The only bad part was not knowing if Henrik was going to be able to come. And what about Elise?

Their teacher, Mr. Isaksen, began with math, but Peter was already far out to sea, dreaming.
Maybe we’ll bring back enough fish to give Mom some extra, too. All the way out there on the water. Feeling the waves. And if I can steer the boat...

When Peter looked up, everyone seemed to be staring at him. Even Henrik, sitting at the desk just across the aisle, was giving him a strange look.

“The answer, Peter?” Mr. Isaksen crossed his arms and looked straight at Peter. Behind him, Annelise Kastrup giggled, and he could feel the back of his neck heating up, the way it always did when he embarrassed himself. Desperately, he tried to focus back on the real world, tried hard to think of the teacher’s question, but he was afraid to ask him to repeat it. Something about fish?

“Umm... one hundred herring?” Peter blurted out before he knew what was happening.
Stupid. Why did I say that?
Everybody broke out laughing, except Mr. Isaksen. It only made him look even more serious, more stern.

“That’s enough, class,” said the teacher. He hardly moved his lips, they were so tightly pressed together—kind of like he was doing a talking puppet routine. His look seemed to drill a hole in Peter. “You may think that was a clever answer, Mr. Andersen, but we are talking about fractions today. You will stay after school this afternoon, please, to brush up on the subject, since you obviously need the practice.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter, not looking up.

Peter wanted to melt through the floor, and the back of his neck felt lobster red. Staying after school would only keep him from getting out to the boat and helping get it ready for the next day. He was in a daze all the rest of the morning until lunchtime, but luckily he wasn’t called on again.

“Where were you during math today?” Henrik asked when they were eating their lunch in the small school auditorium. Elise usually ate with her friends Tina or Susan. “You looked like you were in outer space or something when Mr. Isaksen asked you that question.”

Peter didn’t know what to say, really. Besides, Keld Poulsen and Jesper Jarl—the two people who gave him more pain than anyone else in the world—were sitting just down the bench from Peter and Henrik. Peter could tell as they scooted over close that they were coming in for the kill.

“Hey, Andersen,” snickered Keld. “Where did you get the hundred herring from? That was a bird brained answer.”

He and his sidekick Jesper were real good at making people feel dumb, like now. Peter knew his face was probably going to get red all over again, and then Jesper would chime in for the second punch. Jesper was just as little and skinny as Keld was big and beefy, and he always copied everything Keld did.
Quite a team,
thought Peter.
Obnoxious.
Just then Peter was wishing he and Henrik had skipped lunch and headed straight for the yard by the side of the building.

“Not a bird brained answer, Keld,” said Jesper, sounding like the second half of a bad comedy team. “A
pigeon
 brained answer.” They were just warming up, daring Henrik or Peter to fight back.

“Hey, who asked you, Jesper?”

Surprised, Keld and Jesper whirled around on the bench to see who was challenging them. Peter knew the voice without looking up but couldn’t believe it.
Elise!
She had buzzed in at those two like a hornet, and when the stocky Keld stood up to face his attacker, they were practically nose to nose. But Elise wasn’t going to let anyone get a word in edgeways. With her hands on her hips, she lit into him like a drill sergeant.