World War II Thriller Collection (117 page)

He sat on the wall facing her. “I quarreled with my father and left home.”

“Why did you come here?”

Karen herself was half the reason, but he decided not to say so. “I've got a job with Farmer Nielsen, repairing his tractors and machines.”

“You are enterprising. Where are you living?”

“Um . . . in the old monastery.”

“Presumptuous, too.”

“I know.”

“I assume you brought blankets and things.”

“Actually, no.”

“It may be chilly at night.”

“I'll survive.”

“Hmm.” She smoked in silence for a while, watching darkness fall like a mist over the garden. Harald studied her, mesmerized by the twilight on the shapes of her face, the wide mouth and the slightly crooked nose and the mass of wiry hair that somehow combined to be bewitchingly lovely. He watched her full lips as she blew out smoke. Eventually she threw her cigarette into a flower bed, stood up, and said, “Well, good luck.” Then she went back into the house and closed the French window behind her.

That was abrupt, Harald thought. He felt deflated. He stayed where he was for a minute. He would have been happy to talk to her all night, but she
had got bored with him in five minutes. He remembered, now, that she had made him feel alternately welcomed and rejected during his weekend visit. Perhaps it was a game she played. Or maybe it reflected her own vacillating feelings. He liked the thought that she might have feelings about him, even if they were unstable.

He walked back to the monastery. The night air was already cooling. Karen was right, it would be chilly. The church had a tiled floor that looked cold. He wished he had thought to bring a blanket from home.

He looked around for a bed. The starlight that came through the windows faintly illuminated the interior of the church. The east end had a curved wall that had once enclosed the altar. To one side, a broad ledge was incorporated into the wall. A tiled canopy stood over it, and Harald guessed it had once framed some object of veneration—a holy relic, a jeweled chalice, a painting of the Virgin. Now, however, it looked more like a bed than anything else he could see, and he lay down on the ledge.

Through a glassless window he could see the tops of trees and a scatter of stars against a midnight blue sky. He thought about Karen. He imagined her touching his hair with a fond gesture, brushing his lips with hers, putting her arms around him and hugging him. These images were different from the scenes he had imagined with Birgit Claussen, the Morlunde girl he had dated at Easter. When Birgit starred in his fantasies, she was always taking off her brassiere, or rolling on a bed, or ripping his shirt in her haste to get at him. Karen played a subtler part, more loving than lustful, although there was always the promise of sex deep in her eyes.

He was cold. He got up. Maybe he could sleep in the airplane. Fumbling in the dark, he found the door handle. But when he opened it he heard scuttling sounds, and recalled that mice had nested in the upholstery. He was not afraid of scuttling creatures, but he could not quite bring himself to bed down with them.

He considered the Rolls-Royce. He could curl up on the backseat. It would be roomier than the Hornet Moth. Taking the canvas cover off, in the dark, might take a while, but perhaps it would be worth it. He wondered if the car doors were locked.

He was fumbling with the cover, looking for some kind of fastening that he could undo, when he heard light footsteps. He froze. A moment
later, the beam of an electric torch swept past the window. Did the Duchwitzes have a security patrol at night?

He looked through the door that led to the cloisters. The torch was approaching. He stood with his back to the wall, trying not to breathe. Then he heard a voice. “Harald?”

His heart leaped with pleasure. “Karen.”

“Where are you?”

“In the church.”

Her beam found him, then she pointed it upward to shed a general light. He saw that she was carrying a bundle. “I brought you some blankets.”

He smiled. He would be grateful for the warmth, but he was even more happy that she cared. “I was just thinking of sleeping in the car.”

“You're too tall.”

When he unfolded the blankets he found something inside.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she explained.

In the light of her torch he saw half a loaf of bread, a small basket of strawberries, and a length of sausage. There was also a flask. He unscrewed the lid and smelled fresh coffee.

He realized he was ravenous. He fell on the food, trying not to eat like a starved jackal. He heard a mew, and a cat came into the circle of light. It was the skinny black-and-white tom he had seen the first time he entered the church. He dropped a piece of sausage on the ground. The cat sniffed it, turned it over with a paw, then began to eat it daintily. “What's the cat called?” Harald asked Karen.

“I don't think it has a name. It's a stray.”

At the back of its head it had a tuft of hair like a pyramid. “I think I'll call him Pinetop,” Harald said. “After my favorite pianist.”

“Good name.”

He ate everything. “Boy, that was great. Thank you.”

“I should have brought more. When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday.”

“How did you get here?”

“Motorcycle.” He pointed across the church to where he had parked
the bike. “But it's slow, because it runs on peat, so I took two days to get here from Sande.”

“You're a determined character, Harald Olufsen.”

“Am I?” He was not sure whether this was a compliment.

“Yes. In fact, I've never met anyone quite like you.”

On balance, he thought this was good. “Well, to tell the truth, I feel the same about you.”

“Oh, come on. The world is full of spoiled rich girls who want to be ballet dancers, but how many people have crossed Denmark on a peat-burning motorcycle?”

He laughed, pleased. They were quiet for a minute. “I was very sorry about Poul,” Harald said eventually. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“It was completely devastating. I cried all day.”

“Were you very close?”

“We only had three dates, and I wasn't in love with him, but all the same it was dreadful.” Tears came to her eyes, and she sniffed and swallowed.

Harald was shamefully pleased to learn that she had not been in love with Poul. “It's very sad,” he said, and felt hypocritical.

“I was heartbroken when my grandma died, but somehow this was worse. Gran was old and sick, but Poul was so full of energy and fun, so good-looking and fit.”

“Do you know how it happened?” Harald said tentatively.

“No—the army has been ridiculously secretive about it,” she said, her voice becoming angry. “They just say he crashed his plane, and the details are classified.”

“Perhaps they're covering something up.”

“Such as what?” she said sharply.

Harald realized he could not tell her what he thought without revealing his own connection to the Resistance. “Their own incompetence?” he improvised. “Perhaps the aircraft wasn't properly serviced.”

“They couldn't use the excuse of military secrecy to hide something like that.”

“Of course they could. Who would know?”

“I don't believe our officers would be so dishonorable,” she said stiffly.

Harald realized he had offended her, as he had when he first met her—and in the same way, by being scornful about her credulity. “I expect you're right,” he said hastily. That was insincere: he felt sure she was wrong. But he did not want to quarrel with her.

Karen stood up. “I must get back before they lock up.” Her voice was cold.

“Thanks for the food and blankets—you're an angel of mercy.”

“Not my usual role,” she said, softening a little.

“Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Then she was gone.

Hermia slept badly. She had a dream in which she was talking to a Danish policeman. The conversation was amiable, though she was anxious not to give herself away; but she realized, after a while, that they were speaking English. The man continued to talk as if nothing had happened, while she trembled and waited for him to arrest her.

She woke up to find herself on a narrow bed in a lodging house on the island of Bornholm. She was relieved to find that the conversation with the policeman had been a dream—but there was nothing unreal about the danger that faced her now that she had woken up. She was in occupied territory, carrying forged papers, pretending to be a secretary on vacation, and if she were found out, she would be hanged as a spy.

Back in Stockholm, she and Digby had again deceived their German followers with substitutes, and having shaken them off had taken a train to the south coast. In the tiny fishing village of Kalvsby they had found a boatman willing to take her across the twenty miles or so of sea to Bornholm. She had said goodbye to Digby—who could not possibly pass for Danish—and climbed aboard. He was going to London for a day to
report to Churchill, but he would fly back immediately and be waiting for her on the jetty in Kalvsby when she returned—if she returned.

The fisherman had put her ashore, with her bicycle, on a lonely beach at dawn yesterday. The man had promised to return to the same spot four days later at the same hour. To make sure of him, Hermia had promised him double the fee for the return journey back.

She had cycled to Hammershus, the ruined castle that was her rendezvous with Arne, and had waited there for him all day. He had not come.

She told herself not to be surprised. Arne had been working the previous day, and she guessed he had not been able to get away early enough to catch the evening ferry. He had probably taken the Saturday morning boat and arrived on Bornholm too late to reach Hammershus before dark. In those circumstances, he would find somewhere to spend the night, and come to the rendezvous first thing in the morning.

That was what she believed in her more cheerful moments. But at the back of her mind was the constant thought that he might have been arrested. It was useless to ask herself what he could have been arrested for, or to argue that he had not yet committed a crime, for that only led her to imagine fanciful scenarios in which he confided in a treacherous friend, or wrote everything in a diary, or confessed to a priest.

Late in the day, she had given up on Arne and cycled to the nearest village. In summer many of the islanders offered bed and breakfast to tourists, and she found a place to stay without difficulty. She fell into bed anxious and hungry, and had bad dreams.

Getting dressed, she recalled the holiday she and Arne had spent on this island, registering at their hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Olufsen. That was when she had felt most intimate with him. He loved to gamble, and he would make bets with her for sexual favors: “If the red boat gets into harbor first, you have to go around with no panties all day tomorrow, and if the blue boat wins, you can be on top tonight.” You can have anything you want, my love, she thought, if you just show up today.

She decided to have breakfast this morning before cycling back to Hammershus. She might be waiting all day again, and she did not want to faint from hunger. She dressed in the cheap new clothes she had bought
in Stockholm—English clothes might have given her away—and went downstairs.

She felt nervous as she walked into the family dining room. It was more than a year since she had been in the habit of speaking Danish daily. After landing yesterday she had had only a few brief exchanges of words. Now she would have to make small talk.

There was one other guest in the room, a middle-aged man with a friendly smile who said, “Good morning. I'm Sven Fromer.”

Hermia forced herself to relax. “Agnes Ricks,” she said, using the name on her false papers. “It's a beautiful day.” She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She spoke Danish with the accent of the metropolitan bourgeoisie, and Danes never knew she was English until she told them. She helped herself to porridge, poured cold milk over it, and began to eat. The tension she felt made it difficult for her to swallow.

Sven smiled at her and said, “English style.”

She stared at him, appalled. How had he found her out so fast? “What do you mean?”

“The way you eat porridge.”

He had his milk in a glass, and took sips from it between mouthfuls of porridge. That was how Danes ate porridge, she knew perfectly well. She cursed her carelessness and tried to bluff it out. “I prefer it this way,” she said as casually as she could. “The milk cools the porridge and you can eat it faster.”

“A girl in a hurry. Where are you from?”

“Copenhagen.”

“Me, too.”

Hermia did not want to get into a conversation about exactly where in Copenhagen they both lived. That could too easily lead her into more errors. Her safest plan would be to ask him questions. She had never met a man who did not like to talk about himself. “Are you on holiday?”

“Unfortunately not. I'm a surveyor, working for the government. However, the job is done, and I don't have to be home until tomorrow, so I'm going to spend today driving around, and catch the overnight ferry this evening.”

“You have a car?”

“I need one for my work.”

The landlady brought bacon and black bread. When she had left the room, Sven said, “If you're on your own, I'd be happy to take you around.”

“I'm engaged to be married,” Hermia said firmly.

He smiled ruefully. “Your fiancé is a lucky man. I'd still be glad of your company.”

“Please don't be offended, but I want to be alone.”

“I quite understand. I hope you don't mind my asking.”

She gave him her most charming smile. “On the contrary, I'm flattered.”

He poured himself another cup of ersatz coffe, and seemed inclined to linger. Hermia began to relax. So far she had aroused no suspicion.

Another guest came in, a man of about Hermia's age, neatly dressed in a suit. He bowed stiffly to them and spoke Danish with a German accent. “Good morning. I am Helmut Mueller.”

Hermia's heart raced. “Good morning,” she said. “Agnes Ricks.”

Mueller turned expectantly to Sven, who stood up, pointedly ignoring the newcomer, and stalked out of the room.

Mueller sat down, looking hurt. “Thank you for your courtesy,” he said to Hermia.

Hermia tried to behave normally. She pressed her hands together to stop their shaking. “Where are you from, Herr Mueller?”

“I was born in Luebeck.”

She asked herself what a friendly Dane might say to a German by way of small talk. “You speak our language well.”

“When I was a boy, my family came often here to Bornholm for holidays.”

He was not suspicious, Hermia saw, and she felt emboldened to ask a less superficial question. “Tell me, do many people refuse to speak to you?”

“Such rudeness as our fellow guest has just displayed is unusual. In the present circumstances, Germans and Danes have to live together, and most Danes are polite.” He gave her a look of curiosity. “But you must have observed this—unless you have from another country recently arrived.”

She realized she had made another slip. “No, no,” she said hastily, covering up. “I'm from Copenhagen where, as you say, we live together as best we can. I just wondered if things were different here on Bornholm.”

“No, much the same.”

All conversation was dangerous, she realized. She stood up. “Well, I hope you enjoy your breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

“And have a pleasant day here in our country.”

“I wish you the same.”

She left the room, wondering if she had been too nice. Overfriendliness might arouse suspicion as easily as hostility. But he had shown no sign of mistrust.

As she was leaving on her bicycle, she saw Sven putting his luggage in his car. It was a slope-backed Volvo PV444, a popular Swedish car often seen in Denmark. She saw that the rear seat had been removed to make room for his equipment, tripods and a theodolite and other gear, some in an assortment of leather cases, some wrapped in blankets for protection. “I apologize for creating a scene,” he said. “I didn't wish to be rude to you.”

“That's all right.” She could see that he was still angry. “You obviously feel strongly.”

“I come from a military family. It's difficult for me to accept that we surrendered so quickly. I believe we should have fought. We should be fighting now!” He made a gesture of frustration, as if throwing something away. “I shouldn't speak this way. I'm embarrassing you.”

She touched his arm. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Thank you.”

She rode off.

Churchill was pacing the croquet lawn at Chequers, the official country residence of the British Prime Minister. He was writing a speech in his head: Digby knew the signs. His weekend guests were the American ambassador, John Winant, and the foreign secretary, Anthony Eden, with their wives; but none of them were to be seen. Digby sensed there was some crisis, but no one had told him what. Churchill's private secretary, Mr. Colville, gestured toward the brooding premier. Digby approached Churchill across the smooth grass.

The Prime Minister lifted his bent head. “Ah, Hoare,” he said. He stopped walking. “Hitler has invaded the Soviet Union.”

“Christ!” said Digby Hoare. He wanted to sit down but there were no chairs. “Christ!” he repeated. Yesterday, Hitler and Stalin had been allies, their friendship cemented by the Nazi-Soviet pact of 1939. Today they were at war. “When did that happen?”

“This morning,” Churchill said grimly. “General Dill has just been here to give me the details.” Sir John Dill was Chief of the Imperial General Staff, therefore the most senior man in the military. “Early intelligence estimates put the size of the invading army at three million men.”

“Three
million
?”

“They have attacked along a two-thousand-mile front. There is a northern group heading for Leningrad, a central one making for Moscow, and a southern force on its way to the Ukraine.”

Digby was dazed. “Oh, my God. Is this the end, sir?”

Churchill drew on his cigar. “It may be. Most people believe the Russians can't win. They will be slow to mobilize. With heavy air support from the Luftwaffe, Hitler's tanks could wipe out the Red Army in a few weeks.”

Digby had never seen his boss look so defeated. In the face of bad news Churchill normally became even more pugnacious, always wanting to respond to defeat by going on the attack. But today he looked worn down. “Is there any hope?” Digby asked.

“Yes. If the Reds can survive until the end of summer, it may be a different story. The Russian winter defeated Napoleon and it might yet undo Hitler. The next three or four months will be decisive.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I shall go on the BBC tonight at nine.”

“And say . . . ?”

“That we must give whatever help we can to Russia and the Russian people.”