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 fiance 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
“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.”
