by Robert Elmer
“We’re just a lot of fun,” replied Peter. “Your other friends are kind of boring.”
“They are not!” retorted Elise. “Susan and Tina are lots of fun. See you at home.” Then she turned on her heel and was out the door.
Sisters, thought Peter. She should have been there when the real paint was flying. Then he thought about himself and Henrik, splattered with that sickening yellow color, and he laughed to himself. Elise had, after all, mixed it up for them.
By then, the two boys were mostly cleaned up, and Henrik carefully put the top back on the can of paint thinner.
“Sorry about the mess, Grandpa,” said Peter as they headed for the door. There was still a big yellow gray spot on the wooden plank floor, where the paint had spilled.
His grandfather looked over at them with a trace of a smile on his face. “Don’t worry too much about it, boys,” he said. “I’m just not sure what your mothers are going to say. They’re going to think I let you do finger painting.” Then he put his pretend serious expression back on. “Now get on home to dinner. I hear there’s pigeon stew cooking.”
That was his regular joke, but they laughed anyway and yelled goodbye as they walked out. They went the long way around, along the water. It was warm out, and lots of people were enjoying the summer evening, strolling along the quayside in Helsingor Harbor.
Next to Grandfather’s combination boathouse and pigeon coop, Peter liked the harbor best. It was a mix of fishing trawlers, small freighters, ferries that sailed right over to Sweden, tugs, and other workboats. Uncle Morten unloaded his boat there, too. Actually, the boat still belonged to Grandfather, but the two of them had been fishing together for as long as Peter could remember. They still went out together, but it was Uncle Morten more and Grandfather less. No one seemed to mind the arrangement.
Their boat, the Anna Marie, was named after Peter’s grandmother, the one he had never met. He was hoping to see the boat come in, so he and Henrik sat on a stone bench with a good view of the harbor entrance.
“We never figured out your uncle,” said Henrik, watching the boats as they came in. He was looking straight ahead, scratching a little patch of paint off his elbow.
“Nope,” replied Peter. They glanced at each other for a second. Peter wondered why Henrik was trying to think about it so much, even as he himself was trying his best to forget it. “But what do we do? We can’t just go up to him and say, `Hey, Uncle, are you in the Resistance?’ “
“No, I guess not,” said Henrik. “I just can’t stop thinking about that meeting in the woods. It’s like a big mystery we’ve just got to solve.”
“Remember, he’s still my uncle,” said Peter.
“Right. But we can keep our eyes open, and if—"
“Here he comes,” Peter interrupted Henrik. He could just make out the bright, clean blue hull of the Anna coming through the breakwater that separated the harbor from the waves of the Sound beyond. Uncle Morten was leaning out of the little pilothouse; he spotted Peter and Henrik, and waved to them. They waved back.
Morten scuttled through the narrow opening and made for his spot at the pier, the old engine making its funny chug cough, chug cough sound. It was an ancient boat, originally built for sail. Still, it looked better than most of the newer ones, the way Morten babied it. A noisy flock of seagulls followed close behind—a good sign. They were quick to swoop down on whatever the big fisherman tossed in his wake. Peter’s uncle was the only fisherman the boys knew who could navigate, steer, fish, and clean up afterward, all at the same time. When he pulled up to the pier he had his catch all packed away, ready to sell to the harbor’s fish buyer, and all the scrap fish thrown overboard. Usually there was no wait, the way he did things.
“Heeey, Uncle Morten,” Peter yelled, grabbing the line that was thrown to him. “Catch anything?”
“Catch anything?” Uncle Morten called back. “Don’t you see the gulls?”
Peter and Henrik helped tie up the Anna while Morten rigged a crate of herring to the end of a cable. Since it was low tide, Peter had to crank the handle of a small crane on the top of the dock until the box of silvery fish was hauled up to dock level. His arms strained as the catch seemed to get heavier. Then Uncle Morten swung his big muscled legs up the ladder and over the top rung, and brought the crate in. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “You’re going to have to come out with us one of these times, as soon as my brother feels you’re old enough.”
His brother was Peter’s dad, who hadn’t given in yet to letting Peter or Elise go out with Grandfather and Uncle Morten. Henrik seemed to have cold feet about asking his own parents, and Peter wondered if they would ever say yes anyway. One of these days.
“Hey, speaking of your dad,” said Uncle Morten, looking at his watch, “don’t you two boys ever eat dinner?”
“Dinner!” Peter’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t even thought of the idea since Elise had come to get them at the boathouse. Now he would be in trouble for sure. Henrik moaned.
“I totally forgot, too,” said Henrik. “We better go, Peter.”
They started running back toward town before Henrik had finished the sentence. They raced down Stengade—Stone Street—past Helsingor’s huge old church with the tall spires, and past the old brick City Hall. Ahead of Peter, Henrik turned one way to get to his house and waved back without looking. Peter turned the other way onto his narrow street, Axeltorv Street—Axel’s Market Street. This was another one of those times when he was glad he didn’t live far from the harbor.
As Peter rushed past the bakery two doors down from his apartment, the baker, Mr. Clausen, was just locking up for the night. Usually, Peter would have stopped to say hi, but he ran past as fast as he could go.
“Late again, Peter?” called Mr. Clausen, chuckling.
It had been fifteen or twenty minutes down at the harbor, at least. Peter wasn’t sure, but he knew it had definitely been longer than a few minutes. Dinner? How long did Elise say it would be? Ten minutes? Yeah, I’m going to be in trouble. Again.
Peter pushed open the street level door, then took the long, narrow stairway three steps at a time. Out of breath at the top, he was afraid to look over at the table, where everyone was sitting, finishing dinner. Elise gave him one of her “Where were you?” looks. Peter knew he was in deep, hot water. Their mother was the first to say anything after Peter sat down, but it took a minute.
“You heard your sister tell you dinner was ready?” Her small, pretty face—framed by her shoulder length, curly red hair—normally wore a smile. She was a little woman, smaller even than her growing children. Mr. Andersen’s pet name for her was “Spunky Owl,” which doesn’t translate very well from the Danish but which fit her perfectly. Tonight she was not smiling.
“Maybe I didn’t say exactly how long it was to dinner,” Elise piped up, obviously trying to defend her brother. Not a chance.
“I was asking Peter,” said her mother, waiting for Peter’s answer.
He nodded, looking down. “She said it was going to be ready soon.”
“Too bad it’s ice cold now,” said Mr. Andersen, his voice sounding as cold as the food on Peter’s plate. “Finish it and go to your room right away. No staying up tonight.”
Peter nodded again, relieved at the light punishment.
“You know this isn’t the first time,” his mother continued. Peter knew she would say that, too. “What were you investigating this time, a crab or a sailing ship from China?” That wasn’t quite a joke, but Peter hoped it was a sign she was lightening up. Elise sat stiffly in her chair, as if waiting for the storm to pass.
“I was just helping Uncle Morten tie up the boat and bring up the fish,” Peter explained in his best “I’m really sorry I forgot to come to dinner again on time” voice. He knew by the look on his parents’ faces that apologies weren’t going to do much good this time.
He chewed in silence—his mouth full of cold potato. The fish and cabbage were cold, too, but it didn’t m
atter much. Since the war had begun, everyone’s dinners had gotten plain and cold.
“And your mother didn’t work hard on that food to have you not show up,” added his father. Now Peter was getting it from both sides of the table. Maybe if it was flaeskesteg, the delicious roast pork they used to have before the war, it would be easier to remember and come to dinner on time. No, he didn’t dare say that. His mother couldn’t help it if all she had to buy food with was ration cards, and no one had enough bread, sugar, bacon, butter, or coffee. Mrs. Andersen got the cards every two or three months at a Ration Office; she needed them every time she went to the store. And when they were gone, that was it.
“I’m really sorry, Dad,” said Peter, finishing his glass of water. “I’ll try not to forget again. Really.” He looked up, and both his parents were frowning at him. Elise, who always acted nervous when her brother got into trouble, started clearing plates. It wasn’t because Peter was trying to disobey, at least not in a sticking your tongue out kind of way. It was just so easy to forget sometimes, and then when he remembered, it was too late. Only that wasn’t much of an excuse anymore, and Peter knew it. He finished his cold meal, piled the dishes by the sink, where Elise was doing them, and started shuffling down the hall. He sighed.
“And what’s that funny color all over your hair?” his mother asked.
“Um, nothing,” he replied, closing his bedroom door behind him. Please, not more trouble. “Just some Dead Lily,” he said through the door. His room was at the end of the hall, and it was not much more than a closet, really: big enough for his bed and a small dresser. If he stood on his bed, he could have seen the harbor through his window—that is, if all the other buildings weren’t in the way. Elise had a room just like it, one door down. Their parents shared a slightly larger bedroom. Though their rooms were small, they knew they were lucky. A lot of their friends at school didn’t have their own rooms.
Even during the long summer evenings, like that night, it never seemed to get too hot in their apartment. Mrs. Andersen would open up the large double windows in the living room, and the smell of her flowers floated all through the apartment. She was especially proud of her purple flowers; Peter forgot what they were called.
He lay on top of his bed with his clothes on, smelling the late summer. Elise was still washing the last dishes in the kitchen. Outside, past the flowers, he could smell a little salt air from the Sound, a little bit of fish—maybe from his uncle’s boat, maybe from his hands. Sometimes he pretended that he could even smell all the way to Sweden, that smudge of land across the water.
Peter and Elise had never been there before, but Uncle Morten had said it was full of woods and lakes, even a few mountains. Just across the Sound. Peter listened hard for anything that sounded like the ocean—the chug cough of a fishing boat, or the squeal of a gull. But all he heard were voices in the next room, his parents discussing something, and then a shuffling sound coming under his door.
Elise. It has to be. He looked down and saw the note she had stuck under his door. He rolled over onto his stomach and reached for it.
“Peter, Dead Lily looks lovely on you. Just your color. P.S. I think I’ve figured out what Uncle Morten was doing in the woods.”
She had? He wadded up the note, yanked open the door, and charged down the hall after her. Just then, Mr. Andersen stepped out into the hallway from the living room, and they nearly collided.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“No... yeah, I mean,” Peter stuffed the note into his pocket. Talking with his father about Uncle Morten was one of the last things he wanted to do. “Um, I better go to the bathroom before I go to bed,” he mumbled. “Clean up a little.”
“It’s back the other way, Peter,” his dad said. “But we’ll say good night to you here. You know we love you, even when you’re in trouble.”
“I know, Dad,” he said as he disappeared into the bathroom. “I love you, too.”
As he lay in bed a few minutes later, Peter couldn’t keep his mind on the history book he was reading. He kept thinking about Uncle Morten. Uncle Morten the pirate. Uncle Morten the gambler. Uncle Morten the Resistance fighter. Which one was he? Then he caught himself. Don’t think about it. It’s none of your business, anyway.
What didn’t make any sense to Peter was that his Uncle Morten was supposed to be the one who was the most religious in the family, the one who sometimes talked about prayer meetings, that kind of thing. Once, a couple of years ago, Peter and Elise had even gone with him to a Thursday night meeting at a small house church on Belvedere Way, on the edge of town. Just out of curiosity.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He stuck a finger in his book and looked up.
“Peter, can I come in?” It was Elise.
“Sure.” He was still curious about her note but tried not to be.
Elise cracked open the door and leaned against the side of the doorway without coming in. “So did you get my note?” she asked.
“Yeah, I got it. You’re just like Henrik. Why can’t you two forget about the whole thing?”
“Forget about it?” she said, her voice going above a whisper. “Are you kidding? Don’t you want to know?”
“Not really,” he said, opening up his book to where he left off. “I just want to read my book and not get in trouble.”
“Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “Listen, there’s only one thing it could have been.”
“We’re still talking about Uncle Morten in the woods with the Swedish guy, right?”
“Of course, silly. Now look. Uncle M couldn’t have been doing anything wrong, not even gambling. It has to be the Underground.”
“Has to be?” Peter knew she was right, just like he knew Henrik had been right about this. Still, he had a hard time imagining his uncle sneaking around.
“Yes, has to be. The Swedish man was a contact, and Uncle Morten probably helps to ferry people and things back and forth. The money we saw was to help pay for gas and things.”
Peter thought it sounded right. But how could she be so sure? And even if their uncle was involved in it somehow, there was no way he would ever tell them. It would be too dangerous for anyone to know, especially his family.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe you’re right. But so what? We better not say anything about it to anyone. And besides, we’ll probably never know for sure.”
“Maybe not,” she agreed, “but at least we have a good idea.”
Peter didn’t say anything for a while, and Elise fidgeted by the door. She kept glancing toward the living room, where their parents were still talking quietly.
“I don’t really like to think about it, Elise,” said Peter finally. “But I’m glad you figured it out.” He was—kind of.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Well, good night.” She closed the door quietly and padded down the hall to her room.
“Good night, sis. Thanks.” Elise the detective, thought Peter. I wish she would figure out why Mom and Dad are so grouchy all the time.
Not all the time, but it was true that their parents didn’t smile or joke much anymore. Mr. Andersen worried a lot, and he yelled a lot more than he used to. Mrs. Andersen fussed about their food. It was like a dark cloud was hanging over their kitchen table much of the time. Peter put down his book and fell asleep, trying not to think about the war... again.
Tangled Up
6
With the fall came school, war or no war. For Peter, Elise, and Henrik that meant there were only the weekends for biking and hiking around, taking the pigeons out for trips, being kids. And even though they had their ideas, they still hadn’t figured out who the Swede in the woods was, or exactly why Uncle Morten was meeting him there. At least not for sure.
Peter didn’t think about that as he walked to the boathouse before school. It was his turn to feed the birds and check their water. Even though it was still only September, he could see his breath that morning, and he pretended he was a steam train as he walked down to the
waterfront. As usual, his grandfather was puttering around in the shed.
“Morning, Grandpa,” he called as he pushed open the door. Peter’s grandfather looked up from his perch on a barrel. Like any good fisherman—even though he was mostly retired—he worked a lot on his nets and ropes, things like that. Peter measured out five handfuls of hard corn from the big sack on a shelf, then checked the water bowl. Grandfather had built a cover for the bowl so the birds wouldn’t mess it up or tip it over, and they could stick their little necks in to get a drink. Pigeons are one of the only birds that can drink out of their beaks like a straw, which Peter always thought was fun to watch. Most other birds have to get a mouthful and tip it back to drink.
The birds fluttered around Peter’s feet as he tiptoed around the coop. He could see they were going to have to do some serious cleaning pretty soon.
“Hey, Peter,” said Grandfather as Peter finished his chore. “Your uncle needs a crewman or two to help him this weekend.” He cleared his throat. “And I can’t make it. Just a few hours tomorrow. Saturday. Short trip. You available?”
Who was he kidding? Peter had wanted to go out with his uncle and grandfather for as long as he could remember. But his parents had never let him—yet—and he had really never been asked. “Sure, Grandpa,” he replied, “but—"
“I already talked to your father,” he interrupted. “And we agreed you were old enough to go out this time. You won’t be staying out overnight or anything. Your uncle leaves at six thirty.”
“Fantastic!” yelled Peter, closing the door to the coop. Then he stopped short. “But what about Elise and Henrik? You think his parents would let him come, too?”
