“Good name.”
He ate everything. “Boy, that was great. Thank you.”
“I should have brought more. When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday.”
“How did you get here?”
“Motorcycle.” He pointed across the church to where he had parked the bike. “But it’s slow, because it runs on peat, so I took two days to get here from Sande.”
“You’re a determined character, Harald Olufsen.”
“Am I?” He was not sure whether this was a compliment.
“Yes. In fact, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
On balance, he thought this was good. “Well, to tell the truth, I feel the same about you.”
“Oh, come on. The world is full of spoiled rich girls who want to be ballet dancers, but how many people have crossed Denmark on a peat-burning motorcycle?”
He laughed, pleased. They were quiet for a minute. “I was very sorry about Poul,” Harald said eventually. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”
“It was completely devastating. I cried all day.”
“Were you very close?”
“We only had three dates, and I wasn’t in love with him, but all the same it was dreadful.” Tears came to her eyes, and she sniffed and swallowed.
Harald was shamefully pleased to learn that she had not been in love with Poul. “It’s very sad,” he said, and felt hypocritical.
“I was heartbroken when my grandma died, but somehow this was worse. Gran was old and sick, but Poul was so full of energy and fun, so good-looking and fit.”
“Do you know how it happened?” Harald said tentatively.
“No-the army has been ridiculously secretive about it,” she said, her voice becoming angry. “They just say he crashed his plane, and the details are classified.”
“Perhaps they’re covering something up.”
“Such as what?” she said sharply.
Harald realized he could not tell her what he thought without revealing his own connection to the Resistance. “Their own incompetence?” he improvised. “Perhaps the aircraft wasn’t properly serviced.”
“They couldn’t use the excuse of military secrecy to hide something like that.”
“Of course they could. Who would know?”
“I don’t believe our officers would be so dishonorable,” she said stiffly.
Harald realized he had offended her, as he had when he first met her-and in the same way, by being scornful about her credulity. “I expect you’re right,” he said hastily. That was insincere: he felt sure she was wrong. But he did not want to quarrel with her.
Karen stood up. “I must get back before they lock up.” Her voice was cold.
“Thanks for the food and blankets-you’re an angel of mercy.”
“Not my usual role,” she said, softening a little.
“Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Maybe. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Then she was gone.
14
Hermia slept badly. She had a dream in which she was talking to a Danish policeman. The conversation was amiable, though she was anxious not to give herself away; but she realized, after a while, that they were speaking English. The man continued to talk as if nothing had happened, while she trembled and waited for him to arrest her.
She woke up to find herself on a narrow bed in a lodging house on the island of Bornholm. She was relieved to find that the conversation with the policeman had been a dream-but there was nothing unreal about the danger that faced her now that she had woken up. She was in occupied territory, carrying forged papers, pretending to be a secretary on vacation, and if she were found out, she would be hanged as a spy.
Back in Stockholm, she and Digby had again deceived their German followers with substitutes, and having shaken them off had taken a train to the south coast. In the tiny fishing village of Kalvsby they had found a boatman willing to take her across the twenty miles or so of sea to Bornholm. She had said goodbye to Digby-who could not possibly pass for Danish-and climbed aboard. He was going to London for a day to report to Churchill, but he would fly back immediately and be waiting for her on the jetty in Kalvsby when she returned-if she returned.
The fisherman had put her ashore, with her bicycle, on a lonely beach at dawn yesterday. The man had promised to return to the same spot four days later at the same hour. To make sure of him, Hermia had promised him double the fee for the return journey back.
She had cycled to Hammershus, the ruined castle that was her rendezvous with Arne, and had waited there for him all day. He had not come.
She told herself not to be surprised. Arne had been working the previous day, and she guessed he had not been able to get away early enough to catch the evening ferry. He had probably taken the Saturday morning boat and arrived on Bornholm too late to reach Hammershus before dark. In those circumstances, he would find somewhere to spend the night, and come to the rendezvous first thing in the morning.
That was what she believed in her more cheerful moments. But at the back of her mind was the constant thought that he might have been arrested. It was useless to ask herself what he could have been arrested for, or to argue that he had not yet committed a crime, for that only led her to imagine fanciful scenarios in which he confided in a treacherous friend, or wrote everything in a diary, or confessed to a priest.
Late in the day, she had given up on Arne and cycled to the nearest village. In summer many of the islanders offered bed and breakfast to tourists, and she found a place to stay without difficulty. She fell into bed anxious and hungry, and had bad dreams.
Getting dressed, she recalled the holiday she and Arne had spent on this island, registering at their hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Olufsen. That was when she had felt most intimate with him. He loved to gamble, and he would make bets with her for sexual favors: “If the red boat gets into harbor first, you have to go around with no panties all day tomorrow, and if the blue boat wins, you can be on top tonight.” You can have anything you want, my love, she thought, if you just show up today.
She decided to have breakfast this morning before cycling back to Hammershus. She might be waiting all day again, and she did not want to faint from hunger. She dressed in the cheap new clothes she had bought in Stockholm-English clothes might have given her away-and went downstairs.
She felt nervous as she walked into the family dining room. It was more than a year since she had been in the habit of speaking Danish daily. After landing yesterday she had had only a few brief exchanges of words. Now she would have to make small talk.
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?”