World War II Thriller Collection (98 page)

Also in the package was a copy of an underground newspaper called
Reality.
The underground press was, so far, the only sign of resistance to the Nazis in Denmark. She glanced through it, reading an indignant article which claimed there was a shortage of butter because all of it was sent to Germany.

The package had been smuggled out of Denmark to a go-between in Sweden, who passed it to the MI6 man at the British Legation in Stockholm. With the package was a note from the go-between saying he had also passed a copy of
Reality
to the Reuters wire service in Stockholm. Hermia frowned at that. On the surface, it seemed a good idea to publicize news of conditions under the occupation, but she did not like agents mixing espionage with other work. Resistance action could attract the attention of the authorities to a spy who might otherwise work unnoticed for years.

Thinking about the Nightwatchmen reminded her painfully of her fiancé. Arne was not one of the group. His character was all wrong. She loved him for his careless joie de vivre. He made her relax, especially in bed.
But a happy-go-lucky man with no head for mundane detail was not the type for secret work. In her more honest moments, she admitted to herself that she was not sure he had the courage. He was a daredevil on the ski slopes—they had met on a Norwegian mountain, where Arne had been the only skier more proficient than Hermia—but she was not sure how he would face the more subtle terrors of undercover operations.

She had considered trying to send him a message via the Nightwatchmen. Poul Kirke worked at the flying school, and if Arne was still there they must see one another every day. It would have been shamefully unprofessional to use the spy network for a personal communication, but that did not stop her. She would have been found out for sure, because her messages had to be encrypted by the code room, but even that might not have deterred her. It was the danger to Arne that held her back. Secret messages could fall into enemy hands. The ciphers used by MI6 were unsophisticated poem codes left over from peacetime, and could be broken easily. If Arne's name appeared in a message from British intelligence to Danish spies, he would probably lose his life. Hermia's inquiry about him could turn into his death warrant. So she sat in her boot room with acid anxiety burning inside her.

She composed a message to the Swedish go-between, telling him to keep out of the propaganda war and stick to his job as courier. Then she typed a report to her boss containing all the military information in the package, with carbon copies to other departments.

At four o'clock she left. She had more work to do, and she would return for a couple of hours this evening, but now she had to meet her mother for tea.

Margaret Mount lived in a small house in Chelsea. After Hermia's father had died of cancer in his late forties, her mother had set up home with an unmarried school friend, Elizabeth. They called each other Mags and Bets, their adolescent nicknames. Today the two had come by train to Bletchley to inspect Hermia's lodgings.

She walked quickly through the village to the street where she rented a room. She found Mags and Bets in the parlor talking to her landlady, Mrs. Bevan. Hermia's mother was wearing her ambulance driver's uniform, with trousers and a cap. Bets was a pretty woman of fifty in a flowered dress
with short sleeves. Hermia hugged her mother and gave Bets a kiss on the cheek. She and Bets had never become close, and Hermia sometimes suspected Bets was jealous of her closeness to her mother.

Hermia took them upstairs. Bets looked askance at the drab little room with its single bed, but Hermia's mother said heartily, “Well, this isn't bad, for wartime.”

“I don't spend much time here,” Hermia lied. In fact she spent long, lonely evenings reading and listening to the radio.

She lit the gas ring to make tea and sliced up a small cake she had bought for the occasion.

Mother said, “I don't suppose you've heard from Arne?”

“No. I wrote to him via the British Legation in Stockholm, and they forwarded the letter, but I never heard back, so I don't know whether he got it.”

“Oh, dear.”

Bets said, “I wish I'd met him. What's he like?”

Falling in love with Arne had been like skiing downhill, Hermia thought: a little push to get started, a sudden increase in speed, and then, before she was quite ready, the exhilarating feeling of hurtling down the piste at a breakneck pace, unable to stop. But how to explain that? “He looks like a movie star, he's a wonderful athlete, and he has the charm of an Irishman, but that's not it,” Hermia said. “It's just so easy to be with him. Whatever happens, he just laughs. I get angry sometimes—though never at him—and he smiles at me and says, ‘There's no one like you, Hermia, I swear.' Dear God, I do miss him.” She fought back tears.

Her mother said briskly: “Plenty of men have fallen in love with you, but there aren't many who can put up with you.” Mags's conversational style was as unadorned as Hermia's own. “You should have nailed his foot to the floor while you had the chance.”

Hermia changed the subject and asked them about the Blitz. Bets spent air raids under the kitchen table, but Mags drove her ambulance through the bombs. Hermia's mother had always been a formidable woman, somewhat too direct and tactless for a diplomat's wife, but war had brought out her strength and courage, just as a secret service suddenly short of men had allowed Hermia to flourish. “The Luftwaffe can't keep this up
indefinitely,” said Mags. “They don't have an unending supply of aircraft and pilots. If our bombers keep pounding German industry, it must have an effect eventually.”

Bets said, “Meanwhile, innocent German women and children are suffering just as we do.”

“I know, but that's what war is about,” said Mags.

Hermia recalled her conversation with Digby Hoare. People like Mags and Bets imagined that the British bombing campaign was undermining the Nazis. It was a good thing they had no inkling that half the bombers were being shot down. If people knew the truth they might give up.

Mags began to tell a long story about rescuing a dog from a burning building, and Hermia listened with half an ear, thinking about Digby. If Freya was a machine, and the Germans were using it to defend their borders, it might well be in Denmark. Was there anything she could do to investigate? Digby had said the machine might emit some kind of beam, either optical pulses or radio waves. Such emissions ought to be detectable. Perhaps her 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.

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
Heis,
the Ancient Greek word for the number one, so his wife was
Mia,
the feminine form of the same Greek word. The school had stopped teaching Greek five years ago, but traditions died hard.

“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 København. 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
Anaticula,
the Latin word for a duckling. Over the years it had got shortened to Tik. The two boys had very different backgrounds—Tik was from a wealthy Jewish family—yet they had been close friends all through school.

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 question was challenging, and there was a rumble of agreement from the boys.

“A naive view,” Agger said. His dismissive tone angered Harald.

Heis intervened. “Norway is a land of mountains and fjords, difficult to conquer,” he said, bringing his military expertise to bear. “Denmark is a flat country with a good road system—impossible to defend against a large motorized army.”

Agger added, “To put up a fight would have caused unnecessary bloodshed, and the end result would have been no different.”

Mads said rudely, “Except that we would have been able to walk around with our heads held high, instead of hanging them in shame.” It sounded to Harald like something he might have heard at home from his military relations.

Agger colored. “The better part of valor is discretion, as Shakespeare wrote.”

Mads said, “In fact, sir, that was said by Falstaff, the most famous coward in world literature.” The boys laughed and clapped.

“Now, now, Kirke,” said Heis mildly. “I know you feel strongly about this, but there's no need for discourtesy.” He looked around the room and pointed to one of the younger boys. “Yes, Borr.”

“Sir, don't you think Herr Hitler's philosophy of national pride and racial purity could be beneficial if adopted here in Denmark?” Woldemar Borr was the son of a prominent Danish Nazi.

“Elements of it, perhaps,” Agger said. “But Germany and Denmark are different countries.” That was plain prevarication, Harald thought angrily. Couldn't the man find the guts to say that racial persecution was wrong?

Heis said plaintively, “Would any boy like to ask Mr. Agger about his everyday work as a member of the Rigsdag, perhaps?”

Tik stood up. Agger's self-satisfied tone had irritated him, too. “Don't you feel like a puppet?” he said. “After all, it's the Germans who really rule us. You're just pretending.”

“Our nation continues to be governed by our Danish parliament,” Agger replied.

Tik muttered, “Yes, so you get to keep your job.” The boys nearby heard him and laughed.

“The political parties remain—even the Communists,” Agger went on. “We have our own police, and our armed forces.”

“But the minute the Rigsdag does something the Germans disapprove of, it will be closed down, and the police and the military will be disarmed,” Tik argued. “So you're acting in a farce.”

Heis began to look annoyed. “Remember your manners, please, Duchwitz,” he said peevishly.

“That's all right, Heis,” said Agger. “I like a lively discussion. If Duchwitz thinks our parliament is useless, he should compare our circumstances with those prevailing in France. Because of our policy of cooperation with the Germans, life is a great deal better, for ordinary Danish people, than it might be.”

Harald had heard enough. He stood up and spoke without waiting for permission from Heis. “And what if the Nazis come for Duchwitz?” he said. “Will you advise friendly cooperation then?”

“And why should they come for Duchwitz?”

“The same reason they came for my uncle in Hamburg—because he's a Jew.”

Some of the boys looked around with interest. They probably had not realized Tik was Jewish. The Duchwitz family were not religious, and Tik went along to services in the ancient redbrick church just like everyone else.

Agger showed irritation for the first time. “The occupying forces have demonstrated complete tolerance toward Danish Jews.”

“So far,” Harald argued. “But what if they change their minds? Suppose they decide that Tik is just as Jewish as my uncle Joachim? What is your advice to us then? Shall we stand aside while they march in and seize him? Or should we now be organizing a Resistance movement in preparation for that day?”

“Your best plan is to make sure you are never faced with such a decision, by supporting the policy of cooperation with the occupying power.”

The smooth evasiveness of the answer maddened Harald. “But what if
that doesn't work?” he persisted. “Why won't you answer the question? What do we do when the Nazis come for our friends?”

Heis put in, “You're asking what's called a hypothetical question, Olufsen,” he said. “Men in public life prefer not to meet trouble halfway.”

“The question is how far his policy of cooperation will go,” Harald said hotly. “And there won't be time for debate when they bang on your door in the middle of the night, Heis.”