his first assignment. He was also frightened, but he tried not to think about what might happen if he were caught.
He still hated Poul for dating Karen Duchwitz. He had the sour taste of jealousy in the pit of his stomach every time he thought about it. But he suppressed the feeling for the sake of the Resistance.
He wished Karen were here now. She would appreciate the music.
Just as he was thinking that female company was lacking, he noticed a new arrival: a woman with curly dark hair, wearing a red dress, sitting on a stool at the bar. He could not see her too clearly-the air was smoky, or perhaps there was something wrong with his vision-but she seemed to be alone. “Hey, look,” he said to the others.
“Nice, if you like older women,” said Mads.
Harald peered at her, trying to focus better. “Why, how old is she?”
“She’s got to be thirty at least.”
Harald shrugged. “That’s not really
Tik, who was not as drunk as the other two, said, “She’ll talk to you.”
Harald was not sure why Tik was grinning like a fool. Ignoring him, Harald stood up and headed for the bar. As he got closer, he saw that the woman was quite plump, and her round face was heavily made up. “Hello, schoolboy,” she said, but her smile was friendly.
“I noticed that you were alone.”
“For the moment.”
“I thought you might want someone to talk to.”
“That’s not really what I’m here for.”
“Ah-you prefer to listen to the music. I’m a great jazz fan, have been for years. What do you think of the singer? She’s not American, of course, but-”
“I hate the music.”
Harald was nonplussed. “Then why-”
“I’m a working girl.”
She seemed to think that explained everything, but he was mystified. She continued to smile warmly at him, but he had the sense they were talking at cross-purposes. “A working girl,” he repeated.
“Yes. What did you think I was?”
He was inclined to be nice to her, so he said, “You look like a princess to me.”
She laughed.
He asked her, “What’s your name?”
“Betsy.”
It was an unlikely name for a working-class Danish girl, and Harald guessed it was assumed.
A man appeared at Harald’s elbow. Harald was taken aback by the newcomer’s appearance: he was unshaven, he had rotten teeth, and one eye was half closed by a big bruise. He wore a stained tuxedo and a collarless shirt. Despite being short and skinny, he looked intimidating. He said, “Come on, sonny, make up your mind.”
Betsy said to Harald, “This is Luther. Leave the boy alone, Lou, he’s not doing anything wrong.”
“He’s driving other customers away.”
Harald realized he had no idea what was going on, and he decided he must be drunker than he had imagined.
Luther said, “Well-do you want to fuck her, or not?”
Harald was astonished. “I don’t even know her!”
Betsy burst out laughing.
“It’s ten crowns, you can pay me,” Luther said.
Enlightenment dawned. Harald turned to her and said in a voice loud with astonishment, “Are you a prostitute?”
“All right, don’t shout,” she said with annoyance.
Luther grabbed Harald by the shirt front and pulled him forward. His grip was strong, and Harald staggered. “I know you educated types,” Luther spat. “You think this kind of thing is funny.”
Harald smelled the man’s bad breath. “Don’t get upset,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to her.”
A barman with a rag around his head leaned over the bar and said, “No trouble, please, Lou. The lad means no harm.”
“Doesn’t he? I think he’s laughing at me.”
Harald was beginning to wonder anxiously whether Luther had a knife, when the club manager picked up the microphone and announced Memphis Johnny Madison, and there was a burst of applause.
Luther pushed Harald away. “Get out of my sight, before I slit your fool throat,” he said.
Harald went back to the others. He knew he had been humiliated, but he was too drunk to care. “I made an error of etiquette,” he said.
Memphis Johnny walked on stage, and Harald instantly forgot Luther.
Johnny sat at the piano and leaned toward the microphone. Speaking perfect Danish with no trace of an accent, he said, “Thank you. I’d like to open with a composition by the greatest boogie-woogie pianist of them all, Clarence Pine Top Smith.”
There was renewed applause, and Harald shouted in English, “Play it, Johnny!”
Some kind of disturbance broke out near the door, but Harald took no notice. Johnny played four bars of introduction then stopped abruptly and said into the microphone, “Heil Hitler, baby.”
A German officer walked on stage.
Harald looked around, bewildered. A group of military police had come into the club. They were arresting the German soldiers, but not the Danish civilians.
The officer snatched the microphone from Johnny and said in Danish, “Entertainers of inferior race are not permitted. This club is closed.”
“No!” cried Harald in dismay. “You can’t do that, you Nazi peasant!”
Fortunately, his voice was drowned in the general hubbub of protest.
“Let’s get out before you make any more errors of etiquette,” said Tik. He took Harald’s arm.
Harald resisted. “Come on!” he yelled. “Let Johnny play!”
The officer handcuffed Johnny and walked him out.
Harald was heartbroken. It had been his first chance to hear a real boogie pianist, and the Nazis had stopped the show after a few bars. “They have no right!” he shouted.
“Of course not,” Tik said soothingly, and steered him to the door.
The three young men made their way up the steps to the street. It was midsummer, and the short Scandinavian night was already over. Dawn had broken. The club was on the waterfront, and the broad channel of water gleamed in the half-light. Sleeping ships floated motionless at their moorings. A cool, salty breeze blew in from the sea. Harald breathed deeply then felt momentarily dizzy.
“We might as well go to the railway station and wait for the first train home,” Tik said. Their plan was to be in bed, pretending to sleep, before anyone at school got up.
They headed for the town center. At the main intersections, the Germans had erected concrete guard posts, octagonal in plan and about four feet high, with room in the middle for a soldier to stand, visible from the chest up. They were not manned at night. Harald was still furious about the closure of the club, and he was further enraged by these ugly symbols of Nazi domination. Passing one, he gave it a futile kick.
Mads said, “They say the sentries at these posts wear lederhosen, because no one can see their legs.” Harald and Tik laughed.
A moment later, they passed a pile of builder’s rubble outside a shop that had been newly refitted, and Harald happened to notice a cluster of paint cans on top of the pile-whereupon he was struck by an idea. He leaned across the rubbish and picked up a can.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tik said.
There was a little black paint left in the bottom, still liquid. From among the odd bits of timber on the pile, Harald selected a piece of wooden slat an inch wide that would serve as a brush.
