She took a train back to Copenhagen. It traveled so slowly that by the time she got to the city it was too late for another journey. She went to bed in her flophouse, with the door locked against amorous drunks, and cried herself to sleep. On the following morning she got the first train to the suburban village of Jansborg.
The newspaper she bought at the station had the headline “HALFWAY TO MOSCOW.” The Nazis had made astonishing leaps. In only a week they had taken Minsk and were in sight of Smolensk, two hundred miles inside Soviet territory.
The full moon was eight days away.
She told the school secretary that she was Arne Olufsen’s fiancee, and she was shown into Heis’s office immediately. The man who had been responsible for the education of Arne and Harald made her think of a giraffe in spectacles, looking down a long nose at the world below. “So you’re Arne’s wife-to-be,” he said amiably. “How very nice to meet you.”
He appeared to have no knowledge of the tragedy. Without preamble, Hermia said, “Haven’t you heard the news?”
“News? I’m not sure I have. .”
“Arne is dead.”
“Oh, my goodness me!” Heis sat down heavily.
“I thought you might have heard.”
“No. When did it happen?”
“Early yesterday, at police headquarters in Copenhagen. He took his own life to avoid interrogation by the Gestapo.”
“How very dreadful.”
“Does this mean that his brother doesn’t know yet?”
“I’ve no idea. Harald is no longer here.”
She was surprised. “Why not?”
“I’m afraid he was expelled.”
“I thought he was a star pupil!”
“Yes, but he misbehaved.”
Hermia did not have time to discuss schoolboy transgressions. “Where is he now?”
“Back at his parents’ home, I presume.” Heis frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
Heis looked thoughtful. “About anything in particular?”
Hermia hesitated. Caution dictated that she say nothing to Heis about her mission, but his last two questions suggested to her that he knew something. She said, “Arne may have had something of mine in his possession when he was arrested.”
Heis was pretending that his questions were casual, but he was gripping the edge of his desk hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “May I ask what?”
She hesitated again, then took a chance. “Some photographs.”
“Ah.”
“That means something to you?”
“Yes.”
Hermia wondered whether Heis would trust her. For all he knew, she could have been a detective posing as Arne’s fiancee. “Arne died for those photos,” she said. “He was trying to get them to me.”
Heis nodded, and seemed to come to a decision. “After Harald had been expelled, he returned to the school at night and broke into the photographic darkroom in the chemistry lab.”
Hermia gave a sigh of satisfaction. Harald had developed the film. “Did you see the pictures?”
“Yes. I have been telling people they were photographs of young ladies in risque poses, but that’s just a story. The pictures were of a military installation.”
Hermia was thrilled. The photos had been taken. The mission had succeeded to that extent. But where was the film now? Had there been time for Harald to give it to Arne? If so, the police had it now, and Arne’s sacrifice had been for nothing. “When did Harald do this?”
“Last Thursday.”
“Arne was arrested on Wednesday.”
“So Harald still has your photographs.”
“Yes.” Hermia’s spirits lifted. Arne’s death had not been futile. The crucial film was still in circulation, somewhere. She stood up. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re going to Sande?”
“Yes. To find Harald.”
“Good luck,” said Heis.
23
The German army had a million horses. Most divisions included a veterinary company, dedicated to healing sick and wounded beasts, finding fodder, and catching runaways. One such company had now been billeted on Kirstenslot.
It was the worst possible stroke of luck for Harald. The officers were living in the castle, and about a hundred men were bedded down in the ruined monastery. The old cloisters, adjacent to the church where Harald had his hideout, had been turned into a horse hospital.
The army had been persuaded not to use the church itself. Karen had pleaded with her father to negotiate this, saying she did not want the soldiers to damage the childhood treasures that were stored there. Mr. Duchwitz had pointed out to the commanding officer, Captain Kleiss, that the junk in the church left little usable room anyway. After a glance through a window-Harald being absent, warned away by Karen-Kleiss had agreed to its remaining locked up. As a quid pro quo, he had requested three rooms in the castle for offices, and the deal had been struck.
The Germans were polite, friendly-and curious. On top of all the difficulties Harald faced repairing the Hornet Moth, he now had to do everything under the noses of the soldiers.
He was undoing the nuts that held the buckled wishbone axle. His plan was to detach the damaged section, then sneak past the soldiers and go to Farmer Nielsen’s workshop. If Nielsen would let him, he would repair it there. Meanwhile, the intact third leg, with the shock absorber, would hold the weight of the aircraft while stationary.
The wheel brake was probably damaged, but Harald was not going to worry about brakes. They were used mainly when taxiing, and Karen had told him she could manage without them.
As he worked, Harald kept glancing up at the windows, expecting at any moment to see the face of Captain Kleiss looking in. Kleiss had a big nose and a thrusting chin, which gave him a belligerent look. But no one came, and after a few minutes Harald had the V-shaped strut in his hand.
He stood on a box to look through a window. The eastern end of the church was partly obscured by a chestnut tree that was now in full leaf. There seemed to be no one in the immediate vicinity. Harald pushed the strut through the window and dropped it on the ground outside, then jumped after it.
Beyond the tree, he could see the wide lawn in front of the castle. The soldiers had pitched four large tents and parked their vehicles there, jeeps and horse boxes and a fuel tanker. A few men were visible, passing from one tent to another, but it was afternoon, and most of the company were away on missions, taking horses to and from the railway station, negotiating with farmers for hay, or treating sick horses in Copenhagen and other towns.
He picked up the strut and walked quickly into the wood.
As he turned the corner of the church, he saw Captain Kleiss.
The captain was a big man with an aggressive air, and he was standing with his arms crossed and his legs apart, talking to a sergeant. They both turned and looked straight at Harald.
Harald suffered the sudden nausea of fear. Was he to be caught so early? He stopped, wanting to turn back, then realized that to run away would be incriminating. He hesitated then walked forward, conscious that his behavior looked guilty, and that he was carrying part of the undercarriage of an airplane. He had been caught red-handed, and all he could do was try to bluff it out. He tried to hold the strut in a casual way, as he might carry a tennis racket or a book.
Kleiss addressed him in German. “Who are you?”
He swallowed, trying to remain calm. “Harald Olufsen.”
“And what’s that you’ve got?”
“This?” Harald could hear his own heartbeat. He tried desperately to think of a plausible lie. “It’s, um. .” He felt himself blush, then was saved by inspiration. “Part of the mower assembly from a reaping machine.” It occurred to him that an uneducated Danish farm boy would not speak such good German, and he wondered anxiously whether Kleiss was subtle enough to spot the anomaly.