Nightwatchmen could do something.
She began to feel excited about the idea. She could send a message to the Nightwatchmen. But first, she needed more information. She would start work on it tonight, she decided, as soon as she had seen Mags and Bets back onto their train.
She began to feel impatient for them to go. “More cake, Mother?” she said.
3
Jansborg Skole was three hundred years old, and proud of it.
Originally the school had consisted of a church and one house where the boys ate, slept, and had lessons. Now it was a complex of old and new redbrick buildings. The library, at one time the finest in Denmark, was a separate building as large as the church. There were science laboratories, modern dormitories, an infirmary, and a gym in a converted barn.
Harald Olufsen was walking from the refectory to the gym. It was twelve noon, and the boys had just finished lunch-a make-it-yourself open sandwich with cold pork and pickles, the same meal that had been served every Wednesday throughout the seven years he had attended the school.
He thought it was stupid to be proud that the institution was old. When teachers spoke reverently of the school’s history, he was reminded of old fishermen’s wives on Sande who liked to say, “I’m over seventy now,” with a coy smile, as if it were some kind of achievement.
As he passed the headmaster’s house, the head’s wife came out and smiled at him. “Good morning, Mia,” he said politely. The head was always called
“Any news, Harald?” she asked.
Harald had a homemade radio that could pick up the BBC. “The Iraqi rebels have been defeated,” he said. “The British have entered Baghdad.”
“A British victory,” she said. “That makes a change.”
Mia was a plain woman with a homely face and lifeless brown hair, always dressed in shapeless clothes, but she was one of only two women at the school, and the boys constantly speculated about what she looked like naked. Harald wondered if he would ever stop being obsessed with sex. Theoretically, he believed that after sleeping with your wife every night for years you must get used to it, and even become bored, but he just could not imagine it.
The next lesson should have been two hours of maths, but today there was a visitor. He was Svend Agger, an old boy of the school who now represented his hometown in the Rigsdag, the nation’s parliament. The entire school was to hear him speak in the gym, the only room big enough to hold all 120 boys. Harald would have preferred to do maths.
He could not remember the precise moment when schoolwork had become interesting. As a small boy, he had regarded every lesson as an infuriating distraction from important business such as damming streams and building tree houses. Around the age of fourteen, almost without noticing it, he had begun to find physics and chemistry more exciting than playing in the woods. He had been thrilled to discover that the inventor of quantum physics was a Danish scientist, Niels Bohr. Bohr’s interpretation of the periodic table of the elements, explaining chemical reactions by the atomic structure of the elements involved, seemed to Harald a divine revelation, a fundamental and deeply satisfying account of what the universe was made of. He worshipped Bohr the way other boys adored Kaj Hansen-“Little Kaj”-the soccer hero who played inside forward for the team known as B93 Kobenhavn. Harald had applied to study physics at the University of Copenhagen, where Bohr was director of the Institute of Theoretical Physics.
Education cost money. Fortunately Harald’s grandfather, seeing his own son enter a profession that would keep him poor all his life, had provided for his grandsons. His legacy had paid for Arne and Harald to go to Jansborg Skole. It would also finance Harald’s time at university.
He entered the gym. The younger boys had put out benches in neat rows. Harald sat at the back, next to Josef Duchwitz. Josef was very small, and his surname sounded like the English word “duck,” so he had been nicknamed
A few moments later, Mads Kirke sat next to Harald. Mads was in the same year. He came from a distinguished military family: his grandfather a general, his late father a defense minister in the thirties. His cousin Poul was a pilot with Arne at the flying school.
The three friends were science students. They were usually together, and they looked comically different- Harald tall and blond, Tik small and dark, Mads a freckled redhead-so that when a witty English master had referred to them as the Three Stooges, the nickname had stuck.
Heis, the head teacher, came in with the visitor, and the boys stood up politely. Heis was tall and thin with glasses perched on the bridge of a beaky nose. He had spent ten years in the army, but it was easy to see why he had switched to school teaching. A mild-mannered man, he seemed apologetic about being in authority. He was liked rather than feared. The boys obeyed him because they did not want to hurt his feelings.
When they had sat down again, Heis introduced the parliamentary deputy, a small man so unimpressive that anyone would have thought he was the schoolteacher and Heis the distinguished guest. Agger began to talk about the German occupation.
Harald remembered the day it had begun, fourteen months ago. He had been woken up in the middle of the night by aircraft roaring overhead. The Three Stooges had gone up on the roof of the dormitory to watch but, after a dozen or so aircraft had passed over, nothing else happened, so they went back to bed.
He had learned no more until morning. He had been brushing his teeth in the communal bathroom when a teacher had rushed in and said, “The Germans have landed!” After breakfast, at eight o’clock when the boys assembled in the gym for the morning song and announcements, the head had told them the news. “Go to your rooms and destroy anything that might indicate opposition to the Nazis or sympathy with Britain,” he had said. Harald had taken down his favorite poster, a picture of a Tiger Moth biplane with RAF roundels on its wings.
Later that day-a Tuesday-the older boys had been detailed to fill sandbags and carry them to the church to cover the priceless ancient carvings and sarcophagi. Behind the altar was the tomb of the school’s founder, his stone likeness lying in state, dressed in medieval armor with an eye-catchingly large codpiece. Harald had caused great amusement by mounting a sandbag end-up on the protrusion. Heis had not appreciated the joke, and Harald’s punishment had been to spend the afternoon moving paintings to the crypt for safety.
All the precautions had been unnecessary. The school was in a village outside Copenhagen, and it was a year before they saw any Germans. There had never been any bombing or even gunfire.
Denmark had surrendered within twenty-four hours. “Subsequent events have shown the wisdom of that decision,” said the speaker with irritating smugness, and there was a susurration of dissent as the boys shifted uncomfortably in their seats and muttered comments.
“Our king continues on his throne,” Agger went on. Next to Harald, Mads grunted disgustedly. Harald shared Mads’s annoyance. King Christian X rode out on horseback most days, showing himself to the people on the streets of Copenhagen, but it seemed an empty gesture.
“The German presence has been, on the whole, benign,” the speaker went on. “Denmark has proved that a partial loss of independence, due to the exigencies of war, need not necessarily lead to undue hardship and strife. The lesson, for boys such as yourselves, is that there may be more honor in submission and obedience than in ill- considered rebellion.” He sat down.
Heis clapped politely, and the boys followed suit, though without enthusiasm. If the head had been a shrewder judge of an audience’s mood, he would have ended the session then; but instead he smiled and said, “Well, boys, any questions for our guest?”
Mads was on his feet in an instant. “Sir, Norway was invaded on the same day as Denmark, but the Norwegians fought for two months. Doesn’t that make us cowards?” His tone was scrupulously polite, but the
