Wildflowers of Terezin (17 page)

"He is?" Hanne's face showed at least as much surprise as Steffen felt. What in the world?

"I am?" Steffen gulped, while Henning gave them both a mock expression of confidence. Surely he was kidding, now.When had he come up with such a plan, and not even told Steffen the details?

"Of course he is. You're looking at the man who took fourth place in the 1928 Olympic trials. Have you seen the medals in his office? He missed making the Danish team by just a half second. I'll bet you didn't know that."

"No, I didn't." She furrowed her brow at Steffen with a look that brought color to his cheeks. She needn't have looked quite so surprised, even if Henning didn't remember his facts so well.

"So we need to see your first person at eleven forty-five, not a second before or later. Steffen will be waiting in his boat under the east side of the
Nyhavn
Bridge. You know the place?"

"Did you say Nyhavn?" Hanne's eyes widened in surprise."That's crazy."

"Yes, I know." Henning smiled at his audacious plan. "Right in front of the Germans' noses. But that's exactly the point.And that's why it's going to work."

"Right there in the busiest part of the harbor," said Hanne, still looking as if she didn't quite believe it.

"And nearly two sea-miles out to the Sound," he went on."But to Steffen, that's nothing."

Steffen wasn't sure whether to thank his brother for the vote of confidence, or refuse immediately, before it was too late. Nyhavn. New Harbor. Though it had changed some in recent years, this narrow canal was still one of the most, well,
questionable
collections of colorful waterfront pubs and worse.And getting through that venerable waterfront neighborhood after curfew would surely pose a challenge in itself. But Hanne nodded gravely and Henning went on.

"So I want the second person two minutes after the first one, and the last two at two-minute intervals. Two, four, six, eight. No one will say a word or make a noise, they'll just crawl under the tarp in the back of the boat, and stay there until the boat is clear of the inner harbor and we're ready to make the transfer. Understand?"

"I'll tell them," she agreed. "And I'll let them know an Olympic rower will be taking them to freedom."

"Only out of the harbor, and then you transfer to another boat, one with a permit to be out there. It will be waiting."

By this time Steffen could only watch the conversation work its way back and forth, like a table tennis match. Neither Henning nor Hanne asked for his opinion; perhaps they had forgotten he still stood there. And most notably, no one acknowledged the fact that he had a sermon to deliver tomorrow morning, and that staying out all night rowing Jewish refugees past German guards and out into the
Øresund
sounded like the wildest form of insanity. No one mentioned that part. Instead, Hanne discussed details with the detached manner of someone negotiating the sale of a fresh cod from the apron-clad fishwives on
Gammel Strand
in the old waterfront quarter.

"I see," Hanne replied, shifting to look at Steffen this time."And where again will you be waiting?"

"As I said." Henning didn't let his brother offer a word of his own, which in this case was all well enough. What would Steffen have said, anyway? "Under the bridge. And mind you're on time. If you're not all there by eleven-fifty, he's going to be leaving with whoever is on board. Any questions?"

Hanne looked from one brother to the other, and shook her head no. He wished she might have asked about how they planned to avoid German soldiers on the street, how they hoped to steer clear of German patrol boats on the water, and exactly where they intended to meet up with the fishing boat, somewhere beyond the inner harbor. She asked none of that.

"Actually," Steffen put in, "I took fifth place, not fourth. I was at least a half minute off the pace. And I haven't been able to get out and row for months."

Henning rolled his eyes and steered Hanne back toward the door.

"Don't mind him," he told her. "I think his bicycle accident might have affected his head. But believe me, he still knows how to row. You should see him, sometime."

Steffen took that as a compliment, and Hanne looked over her shoulder with a polite smile. But then he could think of nothing appropriate to say. He could not tell her this was the very first he'd heard of his brother's scheme. Nor could he explain how he'd gone from a respectable pastor to a lawbreaker who illicitly harbored refugees in his church basement, to an active participant in his brother's illegal activities. He dared not even think of the potential consequences, if they were caught. Even more than that, he dared not quote Paul's letter to the Romans anymore—despite the fact that the bishops themselves had quoted it in their protest letter. Because this was different. This was real, except for the fact that Hanne Abrahamsen had stepped into his life in an odd sort of way.

But Henning could have been right about one thing. It had all started with the bicycle accident. And now?

Perhaps it really had affected his head.

"Well, Steffen?" As they walked down Nørrebrogade a few moments later, Henning was obviously waiting for an answer, but Steffen remained silent as his brother continued.

"I admit I presumed quite a bit back there in the shop."

Yes, Henning had presumed, and quite a bit at that. But Steffen flexed his arms and remembered the satisfaction of competitive rowing, back before his seminary days. And he had won a few races, had he not?

"You said you wanted to help," added Henning. "But if you can't do it, tell me now and we'll find someone else. I know it sounds crazy. But are you in? I need to know."

Perhaps it was the kind of thing best prayed over and contemplated.The kind of thing about which he should seek God, making sure he did the right thing. But he also knew that they had to act tonight, and act quickly. And if he didn't agree?

"I'll do it," he said, before he could change his mind. "All right? I'll do it."

NYHAVN HARBOR, KØBENHAVN

SATURDAY EVENING, 2 OKTOBER 1943

For God does not create a longing or a hope without having a ful-

filling reality ready for them. But our longing is our pledge,

and blessed are the homesick, for they shall come home.

—ISAK DINESEN, IN
THE DIVER

S
teffen didn't think anyone could see him as he bobbed in the inky cold water under the Nyhavn bridge. Probably not. Maybe not. But he held his breath when two German soldiers walked past on the cobblestone street above, obviously enjoying their evening a bit too much. One of them lit a cigarette, fumbling with a match as the other sang a German drinking song, off-key. These Germans seemed quite happy to spend the war taking in the comforts of occupied Danmark.

So Steffen burrowed a little deeper under the canvas and covered his head so that only his eyes could see out. Here it smelled of tar, seawater, and old fish— a combination that made his stomach squirm. He tried to breathe through his mouth while not making a sound.

The good news was that no one seemed to notice the long, narrow rowboat as it tugged on its mooring line and occasionally scraped against the stone embankment. Not the passing German soldiers—who eventually moved on—and not anyone else. The bad news was that he'd begun to shiver after seawater in the bottom of the boat sloshed up high enough to soak his knees and ankles.

"You could have at least gotten me a boat that didn't leak, Henning," he mumbled and shifted his weight. A tin cup washed against his foot, and he used it to bail out a few more scoops. The water made his fingers needle-numb. How had he gotten himself into this mess?

To pass the time, he chewed on a small piece of salty black
salmiak
licorice and did his best to run through the sermon outline for the next morning, the one he'd deliver if he actually came back alive. But all he could think of was the opening verse of their reading for tomorrow, the fifteenth week after Trinity Sunday.

Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

"Easy for someone else to say," mumbled Steffen as he tried to crouch above the cold waters. His shoes leaked and his socks felt wet when he wiggled his toes. He worried what his shoes might look like tomorrow when he stepped into the pulpit. Don't be anxious for tomorrow? What about being anxious for the next hour? He hunched down a little more under the tarp and dared to snap on the flashlight he'd brought, just to check the time on his wristwatch.

Eleven-forty. Almost
midnat.
If he was lucky, perhaps no one would show up, and then he would just have to worry about making it home again to his own warm bed, dry and safe and nowhere near the harbor that assaulted his nostrils with pungent odors of beer and low tide.

Except if they didn't show, that meant he would still have to care for them in the church basement, unless they could find another, more reasonable way of getting to safety. No one had ever explained to him why they hadn't just been put on the train to Gilleleje with everyone else.

Don't be anxious for tomorrow? He wondered how four normal-sized people might even fit under the tarp here without tipping the boat over backward. And then he heard footsteps up on the cobblestones again, this time much softer than the heavy thud of German boots—a shuffle and then a stumble, a pause and then a sprint—and then two people stood awkwardly next to the boat, each holding a large suitcase.

Oh, no. Herr and Fru Levin. Standing out in the open, looking for all the world as if they were ready to take a cruise together.

"Under here!" Steffen hissed, motioning for them to come closer. He jumped out of the boat and pulled them in under the shelter of the bridge. "You were supposed to come one at a time."

"It's my fault," said Fru Levin. "I didn't want to come alone."

"No, it's not." Her husband set up his argument. "I wouldn't let you."

"Shh." Steffen managed to clamp a hand over the man's mouth. "Never mind."

The bigger question was, how did they manage to come all this way with their suitcases! And not attract attention? Steffen craned his neck to see if anyone had followed, or if any soldiers approached. He saw none. Good. But they still had a problem.

"Those suitcases," he began. "There's no way we can take them with us. You'll hide them up there, under the bridge."

Through the darkness he could hear the despair creep into Fru Levin's voice.

"But my wedding dress is in there."

"All right, then. You decide: your wedding dress, or your husband. Because trust me, there's not room on this little boat for both."

They looked at each other for a moment before Herr Levin grabbed his wife's suitcase and shoved it into the deeper shadows, farther underneath the span.

"I told you not to bring all that stuff," he grumbled, far too loudly. "We'll never get it across, I said. And now look what's happening."

Steffen felt a pair of desperate hands grip his shoulders.

"You'll take it back to your church, will you not?" Fru Levin's voice trembled. "You don't know how much it means to me. Then when we come back—"

She dissolved again into tears and Steffen honestly wished he could have promised her, or lied to her. All he could do was turn away to pull the tarp into place, helping them step into the back of the small boat.

"Keep your weight down," he ordered. "Find a place in the bottom of the boat and stay there."

"But . . ." Fru Levin objected once more. "It's wet down here!"

This time her husband shushed her as they found their places. And by this time Steffen knew it would take a miracle for them not to be discovered even before they left the shelter of the bridge.

"Is this the right place?" Now the couple's friend, Elias, tapped Steffen on the shoulder. Where had he come from? At least he kept his voice down, but when he signaled to the darkness Hanne's mother emerged to join them, and Steffen hurried her along. Tonight the darkness might be their best friend, but it would not also swallow all the noise they had to be making. At least these two weren't carrying suitcases.

"Into the back of the boat," Steffen told them, aware that the stern had already dipped dangerously. "Hurry."

But he wasted no time giving instructions or redistributing the weight; he simply tossed the tarp over the four of them and prayed they wouldn't immediately capsize. And then, once he'd untied the last rope holding them fast, he pushed out from their shelter and into the dark but open canal.

It had been a few years. But the oars felt snug in his grip, and he braced his feet against one of his passengers. Despite the danger of the open water, he smiled as he reached for his first stroke, deep and slow as they turned and made way for the inner harbor.

"It's still wet," he heard Fru Levin whimper in the darkness.Her husband told her to stay quiet, and Steffen fell into a rhythm as they glided silently past the dark ghosts of fishing cutters and empty freighters. Reach, pull, pause. Water gurgled under the bow as they avoided the outlines of cranes and piers on the shore. Feather the oars so they won't catch.He remembered his last race, when a stitch in his side had slowed him down and cost him the race.

This time he fell into deep, regular breaths, keeping his eye only on the tiny wake that sparkled in the moonlight that had just ventured out from behind a cloud. A glance over his shoulder every few strokes helped keep them from veering too far off course, and then he pulled in earnest, digging in and arching his back with each stroke, faster and faster.Perhaps he could do this, after all. A ripple of a breeze sent tiny waves across the inner harbor, scudding under the bow with a comforting rhythm and the occasional slap against the hull. He could almost have forgotten the danger all around them until his cargo began to move and the boat listed dangerously to the side without warning.

"Stay down!" Steffen almost shouted as he missed a stroke and toppled backward into the bow of the boat, arms and legs flying. The oar slipped out of his right hand with a splash, leaving him on his back with just the left one.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, hoping his voice didn't carry across the waters. Fru Levin's head popped out from underneath the tarp.

"I'm going to be ill," she announced, and Steffen thought it was probably a good thing she was so close to the edge of the boat. But as the boat rocked even more her husband grabbed her around the shoulders in obvious panic while cold water washed in over the side.

Without thinking Steffen leaned out the other side, doing all he could to balance the panic. But instead of steadying the boat he tumbled over the side into the icy harbor.

"Pastor!" he heard someone shout his name, while the shock of icy water closed all around him with a thousand needles, sucking the air from his lungs. He flailed his arms and swallowed a mouthful of bitter seawater until he connected with something hard—the oar!