cemetery.
With a full heart, she crossed the churchyard and stood by the grave of her fiance. She took off her sunglasses. There were lots of flowers, she observed: people were always touched by the death of a young man. Grief took hold of her, and she began to shake with sobs. Tears streamed down her face. She fell to her knees and took a handful of the piled-up earth, thinking of his body lying below. I doubted you, she said in her mind, but you were the bravest of us all.
At last the storm abated and she was able to stand up. She wiped her face dry with her sleeve. She had work to do.
When she turned away, she saw the tall figure and domed head of Arne’s father, standing a few yards off, watching her. He must have approached silently, and waited for her to rise. “Well, Hermia,” he said. “God bless you.”
“Thank you, Pastor.” She wanted to hug him, but he was not a hugging man, so she shook his hand.
“You arrived too late for the funeral.”
“That was intentional. I can’t afford to be seen.”
“You’d better come into the house.”
Hermia followed him across the rough grass. Mrs. Olufsen was in the kitchen, but for once she was not at the sink. Hermia guessed that neighbors had cleared up after the wake and washed the dishes. Mrs. Olufsen was sitting at the kitchen table in a black dress and hat. When she saw Hermia she burst into tears.
Hermia hugged her, but her compassion was distracted. The person she wanted was not in the room. As soon as she decently could, she said, “I was hoping to see Harald.”
“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Olufsen.
Hermia had a dreadful feeling that this long and dangerous journey would turn out to have been for nothing. “Didn’t he come to the funeral?”
She shook her head tearfully.
Curbing her exasperation as best she could, Hermia said, “So where is he?”
The pastor said, “You’d better sit down.”
She forced herself to be patient. The pastor was used to being obeyed. She would not get anywhere by defying his will.
Mrs. Olufsen said, “Will you have a cup of tea? It’s not the real thing, of course.”
“Yes, please.”
“And a sandwich? There’s such a lot left over.”
“No, thank you.” Hermia had had nothing all day, but she was too tense to eat. “Where is Harald?” she said impatiently.
“We don’t know,” said the pastor.
“How come?”
The pastor looked ashamed, a rare expression on his face. “Harald and I had harsh words. I was as stubborn as he. Since then, the Lord has reminded me how precious is the time a man spends with his sons.” A tear rolled down his lined face. “Harald left in anger, refusing to say where he was going. Five days later he returned, just for a few hours, and there was something of a reconciliation. On that occasion, he told his mother he was going to stay at the home of a schoolmate, but when we telephoned, they said he was not there.”
“Do you think he is still angry with you?”
“No,” said the pastor. “Well, perhaps he is, but that’s not why he has disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“My neighbor, Axel Flemming, has a son in the Copenhagen police.”
“I remember,” Hermia said. “Peter Flemming.”
Mrs. Olufsen put in, “He had the nerve to come to the funeral.” Her tone was uncharacteristically bitter.
The pastor went on, “Peter claims that Arne was a spy for the British, and Harald is continuing his work.”
“Ah.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“I won’t lie to you,” Hermia said. “Peter is right. I asked Arne to take photographs of the military base here on the island. Harald has the film.”
Mrs. Olufsen cried, “How could you? Arne is dead because of that! We lost our son and you lost your fiance! How could you?”
“I’m sorry,” Hermia whispered.
The pastor said, “There’s a war, Lisbeth. Many young men have died fighting the Nazis. It’s not Hermia’s fault.”
“I have to get the film from Harald,” Hermia said. “I have to find him. Won’t you help me?”
Mrs. Olufsen said, “I don’t want to lose my other son! I couldn’t bear it!”
The pastor took her hand. “Arne was working against the Nazis. If Hermia and Harald can finish the job he started, his death will have some meaning. We have to help.”
Mrs. Olufsen nodded. “I know,” she said. “I know. I’m just so scared.”
Hermia said, “Where did Harald say he was going?”
Mrs. Olufsen answered. “Kirstenslot. It’s a castle outside Copenhagen, the home of the Duchwitz family. The son, Josef, is at school with Harald.”
“But they say he’s not there?”
She nodded. “But he’s not far away. I spoke to Josef’s twin sister, Karen. She’s in love with Harald.”
The pastor said incredulously, “How do you know that?”
“By the sound of her voice when she spoke about him.”
“You didn’t mention it to me.”
“You would have said I couldn’t possibly tell.”
The pastor smiled ruefully. “Yes, I would.”
Hermia said, “So you think Harald is in the vicinity of Kirstenslot, and Karen knows where he is?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll have to go there.”
The pastor took a watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “You’ve missed the last train. You’d better stay the night. I’ll take you to the ferry first thing in the morning.”
Hermia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How can you be so kind? Arne died because of me.”
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taken away,” said the pastor. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
27
The Hornet Moth was ready to fly.
Harald had installed the new cables from Vodal. His final task had been the punctured tire. He had used the car jack from the Rolls-Royce to lift the aircraft, then he had taken the wheel to the nearest garage and paid a mechanic to repair the tire. He had devised a method of refueling in flight, knocking out a cabin window and passing a hose through it and into the petrol filler pipe. Finally he had unfolded the wings, fixing them in flying position with the simple steel pins provided. Now the aircraft filled the width of the church.
He looked outside. It was a calm day, with a light wind, and patchy low cloud that would serve to hide the Hornet Moth from the Luftwaffe. They would go tonight.
His stomach clenched with anxiety when he thought of it. Simply circling the Vodal training school in a Tiger Moth had seemed like a hair-raising adventure. Now he was planning to fly hundreds of miles over the open sea.
An aircraft such as this should hug the coast, so that it could glide to land in case of trouble. Flying to England from here, it was theoretically possible to follow the coastlines of Denmark, Germany, Holland, Belgium, and France. But Harald and Karen would be many miles out to sea, well away from German-occupied land. If anything went wrong, they would have nowhere to go.
