The bike’s progress over the monotonous undulating landscape was further slowed by breakdowns. He suffered a puncture before he was thirty miles from home. Next, on the long bridge that linked the Jutland peninsula with the central island of Fyn, his chain broke. The Nimbus motorcycle originally had a shaft drive, but that was difficult to connect to a steam engine, so Harald had taken a chain and sprockets from an old lawn mower. Now he had to push the bike miles to a garage and have a new link inserted. By the time he had crossed Fyn, he had missed the last ferry to the main island of Zealand. He parked the bike, ate the food his mother had given him-three thick slices of ham and a slab of cake-and spent a chill night waiting on the dockside. When he relit the boiler the next morning, the safety valve had developed a leak, but he managed to plug it with chewing gum and sticking plaster.
He arrived at Kirstenslot late on Saturday afternoon. Although he was impatient to see Karen, he did not go immediately to the castle. He drove past the ruined monastery and the entrance to the castle grounds, passed through the village with its church and tavern and railway station, and found the farm he had visited with Tik. He was confident he could get a job here. It was the right time of year, and he was young and strong.
There was a large farmhouse in a neat yard. As he parked the bike, he was watched by two little girls- granddaughters, he imagined, of Farmer Nielsen, the white-haired man he had seen driving away from the church.
He found the farmer at the rear of the house, dressed in muddy corduroys and a collarless shirt, leaning on a fence and smoking a pipe. “Good evening, Mr. Nielsen,” he said.
“Hello, young man,” Nielsen said guardedly. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Harald Olufsen. I need a job, and Josef Duchwitz told me you hire summer laborers.”
“Not this year, son.”
Harald was dismayed. He had not even considered the possibility of refusal. “I’m a hard worker-”
“I don’t doubt it, and you look strong enough, but I’m not hiring.”
“Why not?”
Nielsen raised an eyebrow. “I might say it’s none of your business, my lad, but I was a brash young man myself, once, so I’ll tell you that times are hard, the Germans buy most of what I produce at a price decided by them, and there’s no cash to pay casual laborers.”
“I’ll work for food,” Harald said desperately. He could not return to Sande.
Nielsen gave him a penetrating look. “You sound as if you’re in some kind of trouble. But I can’t hire you on those terms. I’d have trouble with the union.”
It seemed hopeless. Harald cast about for an alternative. He might find work in Copenhagen, but then where would he live? He could not even go to his brother, who lived on a military base where overnight guests were not permitted.
Nielsen saw his distress and said, “Sorry, son.” He knocked his pipe out against the top rail of the fence. “Come on, I’ll see you off the premises.”
The farmer probably thought he was desperate enough to steal, Harald thought. The two of them walked around the house to the front yard.
“What the hell’s that?” said Nielsen when he saw the bike, with its boiler gently puffing steam.
“It’s just an ordinary motorcycle, but I’ve rigged it to run on peat.”
“How far have you come on it?”
“From Morlunde.”
“Good God! It looks ready to blow up any minute.”
Harald felt offended. “It’s perfectly safe,” he said indignantly. “I know about engines. In fact, I mended one of your tractors, a few weeks ago.” For a moment, Harald wondered whether Nielsen might hire him out of gratitude, but then he told himself not to be foolish. Gratitude would not pay wages. “You had a leak in the fuel supply.”
Nielsen frowned. “What do you mean?”
Harald threw another slab of peat into the firebox. “I was staying at Kirstenslot for the weekend. Josef and I came across one of your men, Frederik, trying to start a tractor.”
“I remember. So you’re that lad?”
“Yes.” He climbed on the bike.
“Wait a minute. Maybe I can hire you.”
Harald looked at him, hardly daring to hope.
“I can’t afford laborers, but a mechanic is a different matter. Do you know about all kinds of machinery?”
This was no time for modesty, Harald decided. “I can usually fix anything with an engine.”
“I’ve got half a dozen machines lying idle for lack of spares. Do you think you could make them work?”
“Yes.”
Nielsen looked at the motorcycle. “If you can do this, maybe you can repair my seed drill.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“All right,” the farmer said decisively. “I’ll give you a trial.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nielsen!”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, so come here on Monday morning at six o’clock. We farmers start early.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Don’t be late.”
Harald opened the regulator to let steam into the cylinder and drove off before Nielsen could change his mind.
As soon as he was out of earshot, he let out a triumphant yell. He had a job-one much more interesting than serving customers in a haberdashery-and he had done it himself. He felt full of confidence. He was on his own, but he was young and strong and smart. He was going to be all right.
Daylight was fading as he drove back through the village. He almost failed to see a man in police uniform who stepped into the road and waved him down. He braked hard at the last minute, and the boiler sighed a cloud of steam through the safety valve. He recognized the policeman as Per Hansen, the local Nazi.
“What the hell is this?” Hansen said, pointing to the bike.
“It’s a Nimbus motorcycle, converted to steam power,” Harald told him.
“It looks dangerous to me.”
Harald had little patience with this kind of officious busybody, but he forced himself to answer politely. “I assure you, Officer, it’s perfectly safe. Are you making official inquiries, or just indulging your curiosity?”
“Never mind the cheek, lad. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
Harald told himself not to get on the wrong side of the law. He had already spent one night in jail this week. “My name is Harald Olufsen.”
“You’re a friend of the Jews at the castle.”
Harald lost his temper. “It’s none of your damn business who my friends are.”
“Oho! Is it not?” Hansen looked satisfied, as if he had the result he wanted. “I’ve got the measure of you, young man,” he said maliciously. “I shall keep a close eye on you. Off you go, now.”
Harald pulled away. He cursed his short temper. He had now made an enemy of the local policeman, just because of a throwaway remark about Jews. When would he learn to keep out of trouble?
A quarter of a mile from the gates of Kirstenslot, he turned off the road onto the cart track that led through the wood to the back of the monastery. He could not be seen from the house, and he was betting no one would be working in the garden on a Saturday evening.
He stopped the bike at the west front of the disused church, then walked through the cloisters and entered the church by a side door. At first he could see only ghostly shapes in the dim evening light coming through the high windows. As his eyesight adjusted, he made out the long Rolls-Royce car under its tarpaulin, the boxes of old toys, and the Hornet Moth biplane with its folded wings. He had the feeling that no one had entered the church since last time he was here.
He opened the large main door, drove his bike inside, and closed the door.
He permitted himself a moment of satisfaction as he shut down the steam engine. He had crossed the country on his improvised motorcycle, got himself a job, and found a place to stay. Unless he was unlucky, his father could not find out where he was; but if there should be any important family news, his brother knew how to get in touch with him. Best of all, there was a good chance he would see Karen Duchwitz. He recalled that she liked
