by Robert Elmer
Peter couldn’t believe his ears, but he didn’t say anything. In a moment the German swiveled on his toe and walked quickly up the ramp.
“He’s gone,” said Uncle Morten, after they had all watched the gray uniform disappear. That’s when Peter and Elise looked over at Henrik, who was making a funny little whimper. His knees folded under him, and he fainted quietly onto the dock.
Uncle Morten vaulted out of the boat past Grandfather; everyone crowded around Henrik and tried to lay him on his back.
“Henrik!” yelled Peter. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t yell at him,” snapped Elise. “He fainted and he can’t hear you anyway.”
Henrik wasn’t answering right away, but it was only a few moments before his eyes fluttered open again. Uncle Morten wadded a jacket and placed it under his head, and Grandfather covered him with another coat he had found in the boat.
“My arm. My arm. My arm!” Tears were streaming down his face.
Uncle Morten touched Henrik’s arm where there was a lump, and the boy yelped. Uncle Morten looked up. “It’s probably broken,” he said. “But I can’t believe you didn’t say anything until now. Why not?”
Henrik tried to catch his breath. “I couldn’t say anything while he was here,” he choked. “I just couldn’t.”
“Well, let’s get you up to a doctor,” said Grandfather. “This is going to take some looking after. Can you walk?”
He could—barely—and Uncle Morten put his arm around the boy’s waist as he guided him down the street to the neighborhood clinic on Star Street. But the arm, Henrik’s left arm, did turn out to be broken.
“It’s not so bad that it won’t heal just fine,” said Dr. Rasmussen, closing up his bag. He had just finished putting a small cast on Henrik’s forearm. Henrik said the pain was still terrific, but with his parents around he was grinning anyway from where he sat on the clean hospital bed. He smiled at the doctor, Uncle Morten, Grandfather, Elise, and Peter. He had a small audience in the clinic room, and Henrik was performing.
“So, Doctor, will I be able to play the piano after my arm heals?” Henrik asked.
“No, Mr. Melchior,” replied the doctor, straight faced. “Not unless you start taking lessons.”
“Aw, you didn’t fall for it,” said Henrik.
“I’ve heard that one before,” the doctor replied, looking down at his clipboard. He was smiling, though. “Take very good care of this arm for a month or so. No tumbling or arm wrestling; keep the activity down. And come back in six weeks.”
“Thanks so much, Doctor,” said Mrs. Melchior.
Then Henrik suddenly frowned. “This means I won’t be able to go out with Peter and his uncle tomorrow on the boat, right?”
Henrik’s dad had already heard about the trip. Now he looked even more serious than he usually did, and his black, bushy eyebrows were bunched close down over his eyes. He was rather short and stubby looking, not at all athletic like his son. And the decision about the fishing trip was already made for him now. “I think you know the answer to that, son,” he said. “I’m sorry. You heard the doctor.”
Henrik groaned. Then he looked at his friends. “But you’ll go anyway, right, Peter? Elise?”
Peter wasn’t so sure. Since the tumble on the dock, he felt all jumbled inside. He felt terrible about Henrik getting hurt, and how he made him fall, even though it was an accident. But Henrik hadn’t even let anyone apologize. At least he isn’t mad at me, thought Peter. He remembered what his uncle had said to the German officer, and that was bothering him, too. None of it fit; none of it seemed right. He had a giant headache.
“Right, Peter?” Henrik repeated.
“Well, I guess so,” replied Peter, not really knowing what he was saying. “If Uncle Morten is still going out.” It wouldn’t be quite as fun, Henrik at home with a broken arm, but yes, he still did want to go out.
“I’m planning on it, Peter,” said Uncle Morten. “We still have to go out and make a living, even though I’m not planning a long day tomorrow. The fish are waiting.” Then he turned to Elise. “And what about you, young lady—you’re coming, too?”
Elise looked down, then over at her uncle. “I... I can’t,” she said hesitantly. “You and Peter will have fun. Maybe I can go out next time.” Obviously embarrassed, she turned and ran outside.
Uncle Morten looked puzzled, but just shrugged and turned to Henrik’s father.
“I’m very sorry it happened this way,” said Morten. “Your son was helping us, but it was an accident. The boys weren’t horsing around or anything.”
“Oh, I realize that fully.” Mr. Melchior waved his hand, dismissing the situation. “And no one is blaming you. These things happen sometimes.” He sounded polite and calm, but at the same time he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Peter wasn’t sure whether he was upset about Henrik getting hurt, or about the German down on the dock. The officer had been looking for something. Or someone.
Before Peter left for home, he saw Mr. Melchior and Uncle Morten move back to a corner of the clinic, behind a cabinet full of bandages and supplies. Mr. Melchior was gesturing—not mad, but making a point. Peter’s uncle put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and said something else to him. Peter didn’t want to seem too nosy, so he didn’t stare. But as everyone left, the two men were still in the corner, whispering. Uncle Morten looked up and waved to Peter.
“Tomorrow early, right?” he said.
“Six o’clock,” Peter called back as he headed out, looking for Elise.
“Wait a minute,” said Henrik as Peter was just about to close the door. “I have an idea. Why don’t you send a message back with Number Two?”
Peter thought for just a second, then brightened a bit. “Sounds great! Check the boathouse with Elise at three or four o’clock to see if the bird’s made it back.”
“I’ll make it out of the sickbed for that, at least,” Henrik laughed as Peter left.
Peter found Elise outside the clinic, and they walked home together, neither of them saying a word. He wanted to say something that might make her feel better, but couldn’t.
On the Sound
7
“Henrik and Elise should be here,” Peter said to his uncle as they headed out of the harbor.
Henrik couldn’t help it, of course, but Elise had just told her brother again the night before that she would rather not go. Something about “all those smelly fish.” Peter couldn’t understand why she was turning down this chance that he’d been waiting for for so long. Even though they were twins, there were some things about Elise he just couldn’t figure out.
Looking around at the ocean, Peter decided she was silly to be missing all this. The water on the Sound was almost like a mirror that morning, reflecting all the way to Sweden. Only the long, low swells turned it into a kind of soft cake frosting, and the Anna Marie rode the frosting like a rocking horse finding its place in the world. It would have been enough to put Peter to sleep if he hadn’t been so excited about being out there.
“Here, you take the wheel for a while,” said Uncle Morten. He pointed out familiar landmarks that would help them stay on course. A church steeple in the little coastal town of Julebaek on the Danish side. A strange hill over on the Swedish side, taller than the rest. A bright red buoy, usually covered with gulls. Peter almost forgot what had happened the day before, until a gray German patrol boat appeared from behind, coming fast.
“Watch,” said Uncle Morten, keeping track of the boat out of the corner of his eye as it got closer. It was speeding through the gentle swells, throwing out spray. “I’ll bet they’re going to stop us.”
They didn’t, but they came close. Two sailors with dark blue uniforms stood on deck and stared straight at the Anna Marie. They looked like two college kids out for a boat ride, only they obviously weren’t having fun. No one was smiling. No one waved either, and the little fishing boat bobbed in the wake of the patrol boat as it sped by. Pe
ter looked down, and his knuckles were white. He eased his grip on the wheel and took a deep breath. Seeing the German boat reminded him about the conversation on the dock the day before. The question kept nagging at him. How can I ask Uncle Morten without sounding like I’m accusing him of being a German spy?
“Hey, Uncle Morten,” Peter finally said, looking for the right approach. “Umm... can I... can I ask you about what happened yesterday?”
Morten turned his head, his eyebrows raised. “What, besides your friend breaking his arm?”
“You know, when the German guy was at the boat and we fell down the gangway and you and Grandpa were talking to the guy and you told him something about keeping an eye out for him, helping to catch smugglers or criminals, you didn’t have any need for criminals, did you really mean that or what?” It all spilled out at once in one long sentence.
His uncle looked ahead through the wheelhouse window, and he smiled a long, easy smile. Then he looked over again, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “How long have you known me, Peter?” he finally asked.
“You know. All my life. Except for when you were fishing in Iceland.”
“Okay. Now, do you have any idea how I feel about the Germans coming in and taking over our country?”
“Well, I thought I did, but that’s what I can’t figure out. I can’t even imagine that you would work with the Germans, but you never talk about it much, especially after we saw you giving all that money to the Swedish guy in the woods.”
Peter bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say anything about the meeting in the woods, especially not about seeing the money.
“I mean, I mean, really,” Peter continued. “Why don’t you...”
Uncle Morten didn’t change his expression. “Why don’t I what? Cooperate with the Nazis? Are you joking?”
“No, why don’t you talk about it that much?”
Uncle Morten took a deep breath, and the smile faded. “I’m not trying to keep secrets, Peter, really. But it’s just better that... well... let me start over.” There was a pause. “I really can’t tell you that much about what I do, not even about the Swedish fellow. I’m sorry. But I can promise you that I’ll explain the whole thing to you after the war is over.”
The fisherman stared at a gull gliding by the boat, and chewed his tongue. “Listen,” he said, finally. “I don’t know how to explain things other than sometimes we find ourselves in the awkward spot of having to mislead someone—the enemy—to protect something else, something very valuable.”
“So you didn’t mean what you said to the German yesterday, about helping him out?”
Uncle Morten blew out through his teeth with a kind of “harumph.”
“Things aren’t always the way they seem, Peter.” His lips were tight and serious looking as he said it. “And I dislike dealing this way with anyone, for any reason. But these people are out to destroy.... They’re out to destroy everyone and everything that’s good and important to this country.” His face was getting red now, and his voice sounded different.
Peter looked straight at him, a little surprised. He had never heard his uncle, normally cool and mild, so heated up. They were quiet for another minute, two minutes.
When Uncle Morten spoke again, he was cooling down. “You understand what I just said?”
“I’m not sure, Uncle Morten.” Peter wasn’t, but he was starting to get an idea. “All I wanted to know was what you were talking about with that German officer. I didn’t mean anything by it, really. I’m just kind of confused.”
“And maybe you still are, and maybe I said too much.” He laughed again, the old Uncle Morten. “Look, I don’t want to confuse things any more, so let me say it straight for you. Since I’ve become a Christian a few years ago, I’ve learned that it’s wrong to lie, period. The Bible says so. But the Bible also tells the story of a woman who hid two Jewish spies during a war, and then she lied to the authorities about which way they went.”
“And that was okay?” Peter asked, feeling like some kind of Bible student.
“Well, the story was in the Old Testament, in the Book of Joshua. Later on, in the New Testament, there’s mention of the woman again. And it says she did the right thing.”
“I’m not saying you did the wrong thing, Uncle Morten, I just...”
“I know, Peter. And I didn’t want to give you a complicated answer to a simple question. I just wanted you to know.”
“I think I’m getting it now,” said Peter. Mainly, he was relieved to hear that Uncle Morten wasn’t on the wrong side. Not that he ever believed it. And even though Uncle Morten hadn’t come straight out and said so, the message was clear. Elise and Henrik had been right. Uncle Morten was in the Underground, and the money had probably been for smuggling people across to Sweden or something like that. At that point Peter guessed it was none of his business.
But this was a day of surprises. It made Peter wonder, and he smiled inside when he thought about how his uncle was sharing so much about himself, even the Bible things. After all, he didn’t have a wife to talk to, even though Peter knew his uncle had a lot of church friends.
Peter learned a few other things that morning, mostly about fishing, steering a straight line, finding out where the fish were. He steered, while Morten did most of the work out on the deck. Peter’s uncle said they were having a “vacation” day, not worrying too much about a serious catch. Fine with me, thought Peter. Just being out here on the water is good enough. And now that he knew more about Uncle Morten, he wasn’t as worried. Relieved, more. He made a note to himself that he would have to tell Elise and Henrik, as soon as he got a chance.
“So when are you going to let the bird go?” Uncle Morten asked around lunchtime. He paused for a minute to look up from a net.
The bird! Peter had completely forgotten about Number Two after he had stashed her in the wicker fishing basket and put her underneath the small counter in the back of the Anna Marie’s wheelhouse. He was sure she was okay, but she hadn’t made a sound all morning.
“Oh, yeah!” said Peter. “What message should we send?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small capsule with the snap strap, the one that went around the bird’s leg.
“How about, `Heading south. All is well. Catching lots of fish. Peter and Morten.’ Think that’s too long?”
“No, just right.” Peter braced himself against the side of the wheelhouse while he scribbled on a scrap of paper torn from a little black notebook Uncle Morten kept in the boat. Then he pulled out the bird and checked her over. In a minute, the message was rolled up tight and secure in the capsule and on the homing pigeon’s leg.
They both watched after Peter tossed the bird into the clear sky above the boat. As usual, she circled twice, her wings whistling and flap clapping together with the musical sound that only pigeons make. Peter never got tired of watching. Something about it. In a minute, her built in compass kicked in, and she turned north and headed straight for home, for Helsingor—their city of steeples, shipyard cranes, brick buildings, and Kronborg Castle.
“She’ll be home in a half hour,” said Peter, straining to see Number Two as she disappeared in the distance.
“Right,” said Uncle Morten. “That’s a pretty good way to send your airmail. Doesn’t even need a stamp.” Now he was finished with his net, and he popped a hard boiled egg into his mouth. Peter’s mom would never let him do anything like that at home, so he tried it, too. He almost gagged, it was so big.
The rest of the afternoon fell into a pattern. Peter steered, and Uncle Morten let out net. Uncle Morten pulled in net, and Peter steered some more. Peter wasn’t sure how his uncle ever did it by himself, but they were catching a few fish this day, and his uncle said he was a big help. They both picked out and threw back the unwanted fish—big ugly things with bulging eyes, spiny backs, flapping gills. They kept the little herring, and the hold—the big storage bin in the middle of the boat—was getting fuller. It was hard work, and Peter’s hands an
d arms were aching. But they were out on the water. Sometimes they didn’t say anything; other times Peter’s uncle answered all his questions. What’s this for? Why are we doing that? How do you know?
Mostly they talked about regular things—the fish, the boat, the weather, the waves. But what Peter really wanted to know was something different. Something about what his uncle had said when he was explaining about the Germans, right after he had gotten all upset. Peter kept it to himself as long as he could. If I ask, he might start talking about his strange little church, or about the Bible, the way Grandfather does so much. He wanted to hear, but he didn’t. He wondered, but he didn’t want to know. He was interested but a little afraid to show it. He had been to church—the big Lutheran church in the middle of the city—enough times to know the language. So why not ask?
Something made him blurt out a question, almost before he really knew what it was.
“I was just curious, Uncle Morten,” Peter finally said. Uncle Morten had just played out the net again, and he looked up with his usual grin. He was a lot like Henrik that way.
“What? Philosophy, politics, the war, or how to save the world?”
“No, really, what you said before, when we were talking about the Germans.”
“Oh.” He looked out over the water toward Sweden, now a blue green blur in the distance as they headed south into the open waters of the Sound. He cocked his head at his nephew, looking up with one eye. “Look, I don’t know how much more I can tell you about that. I’ve already said too—"
“No, not about the Germans,” Peter interrupted. “Or about what you do in the Under—” He bit his tongue again. “It’s what you said about becoming a Christian.”
Peter felt himself asking the questions, but it was almost as if it wasn’t him. He had avoided it pretty well before. “I mean, I’m just curious, a little. I know you go to that little house church, and all those other meetings, but you’ve always been a Christian, right?”
