by Robert Elmer
Peter was starting to get the idea now about the food. Mrs. Melchior even poured a little splash of wine in small glasses for the two boys. Henrik leaned over and whispered to Peter, “Now comes the good part.” Peter didn’t know why he whispered, but it was turning out to be that kind of meal. Not in a bad way, but definitely different.
“Well, it wasn’t easy to get,” said Mr. Melchior with a smile, “but I understand Ruth, Mrs. Melchior, found some honey last June, and saved it all this time.” He patted her hand across the table. “Perfect.” Then Henrik’s dad looked over at Peter again. “There is another blessing to ask before we eat these apple slices dipped in honey.” He pointed to a bowl of cut yellow fruit. Peter knew the words by now and was almost following along.
“Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who creates the fruit of the tree.”
Peter followed Henrik’s example by taking an apple slice and dipping it into the small dish of honey. Not bad at all. When they finished their apples and licked the honey off their lips, Mr. Melchior cleared his throat again. There would be another blessing, or prayer, or something.
“May it be your will, O Lord and God of our Fathers,” he recited in his deep voice, “to renew unto us a happy and sweet year.”
Mrs. Melchior looked out the window just then, and for a moment she seemed far away. “A happy and sweet year,” she repeated softly.
That said, everyone went on to the rest of the dinner, which was more like a traditional wartime meal. Cabbage, a little fish, some small potatoes. Mr. Melchior was even served a steaming fish head, another Jewish holiday tradition for the head of the household. Peter and Henrik were halfway through their cabbage when Mr. Melchior brought up the pigeon race again.
“Now, tell me.” He looked up briefly and smiled at his wife; she was spooning another potato onto his plate. “What is all this about the Great Danish Pigeon Race? It’s different from what you boys had been doing this summer?” It seemed to Peter that he asked in an interested sort of way, as if he really wanted to know.
“Just a little different, Father,” said Henrik, carefully choosing his words. He spoke to his dad almost the same way Peter did to his grandfather, only a little more formally, with a little more respect. His parents were a lot older than Peter’s. “Peter and his sister and I have been training the birds to fly home from farther and farther away, you know.”
“And I’m not sure I approve anymore,” interrupted his father.
What? Peter was afraid Henrik’s dad was going to bring up the whole episode down at the boat again, when Henrik broke his arm.
“It was one thing when you boys were just staying around town, and the summer was quieter,” continued his dad. “But with all these Germans around now, and the way things are going, it’s just not safe anymore. I’ve spoken to Peter’s uncle about this. But,” he paused, thinking for a moment, “go ahead and explain it some more for me.” Then, without waiting for an answer from his son, he looked straight at Peter. “How is this race any different?”
Peter gulped, caught in the middle now. Henrik’s father, a manager in the largest department store downtown, was at the same time stern, friendly, and scary. His mom, on the other hand, was just as shy as Mr. Melchior was outgoing. She was looking at Peter, too, expecting some kind of answer. He had his mouth full of potato.
“Well, sir,” he said, sputtering a little, “my uncle Morten is a fisherman, and—"
“Yes, I know your uncle.”
Peter knew he knew. He gulped, then continued. “Well, he told me he would take our three birds out sometime and let them start the race from Sweden.”
“Sweden?” Mr. Melchior’s dark eyebrows went up. He put his fork down, as if trying to figure out what Peter had just said. “And what would he be doing all the way over there? He knows what would happen to him if a German patrol boat found him returning from outside Danish waters, doesn’t he?”
Peter felt as if he had just stuck a big foot in his mouth. Not that he knew anything secret about what Uncle Morten was doing, and Mr. Melchior was no friend of the Nazis. But still...
“I think he gets out kind of far sometimes,” Peter said. “He probably just meant...” He didn’t know how to finish his sentence without telling a lie. But by then Mrs. Melchior must have seen how he was sweating this one, and she came to the rescue.
“You don’t need to say anything else, Peter,” she said, her voice soft. “We won’t tell anyone where your uncle likes to fish. He’s a fine man, and we certainly wouldn’t want to see anyone else learn about his... well, his fishing secrets.” She looked at her husband, sending him a message with her eyes. Peter had seen his own mom give his dad the same look plenty of times before.
“But as for you, young Mister Melchior,” said Henrik’s dad, “I’m sad to say that you will be staying away from Peter’s uncle from here on, for safety’s sake.” Henrik almost slid under the table. “As your mother said, he’s a fine man, and we certainly have nothing against him. It has nothing to do with your arm, either. It’s just for safety’s sake. And that means keeping your bird out of his boat as well. I’m very sorry.”
Peter got the feeling Mr. Melchior was a little embarrassed to be bringing all this up right then, at the Rosh Hashanah meal and all. And Peter didn’t want to start a family feud right there, on a holiday. He looked at Henrik to see how he was reacting, and his friend was moving food around on his plate, looking down.
“Are you serious, Father?” said Henrik, questioning his dad for the first time since Peter could remember.
“Quite serious, son. Have you forgotten who we are?”
“You mean do I remember we’re Jewish? I’m Danish, too, Father, just like everybody else. Just like Peter.”
Mr. Melchior’s neck stiffened. If Peter hadn’t been at the table with them, he might have exploded.
“Not like everyone else, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Melchior, measuring his words carefully. “We’re Danes, but we’re Jewish Danes. Or Danish Jews. I’m not sure. Those German soldiers outside would love to remind us of it, too.”
“Esaias!” Now Henrik’s mother interrupted. “There’s no need to start into that conversation again. This is a holiday, remember?”
“I think the boys know at least as much as we do, dear.” Mr. Melchior swept his hand past the lace curtains on the window and pointed his sharp finger out at the street. “The boys are out there all the time, riding their bicycles and such. The only thing they don’t know is how much has happened in the other countries. To Jews. To family.” His face was drawn tight now.
“Please, Father,” protested Henrik, this time a little less defiant. He had drawn back from the edge of his chair now and was still picking nervously at his plate. “Nobody has ever bothered me about being Jewish. Nobody cares. It’s not like any of the stories you’ve told me. Denmark’s different.”
Finally Mr. Melchior smiled a little, and he gave a kind of sad chuckle. “You’re right, son, a little bit right. We’re accepted here, even though we are looking less and less like Jews all the time. But that’s another story. The terrible things that are happening to Jews in Poland, in Germany, haven’t happened here. We should be thankful to God.”
There was a long pause. Peter was hoping Henrik’s dad would change his mind about the pigeons, about Uncle Morten... maybe if Henrik would stop arguing. But just then, it didn’t look good for the Great Danish Pigeon Race.
“That doesn’t change the fact that we—this family—we are still Jews,” continued Mr. Melchior, “and we live in a place that’s been taken over by a German crazyman who hates the Jews. You, Henrik, son of Israel, are not going to go around looking for trouble. That’s the end of it. Now, please pass the cabbage, if there’s any left that’s not ice cold.”
End of discussion. Period. That was it. There would be no pigeon races from Uncle Morten’s boat. Henrik looked over at Peter and gave him a look like “What can I do about it?”
Peter just wan
ted to keep his mouth shut and not get into the argument.
“So tomorrow,” Mrs. Melchior tried to brighten things up. “We’re all going to the harbor after school, yes?” Henrik nodded, and his mom looked at Peter with her friendly smile again. She was really trying to make him feel more comfortable, especially after this discussion. “Every year, Peter, we follow the same Jewish tradition.” Peter nodded. “At the waterfront we empty our pockets of bread crumbs and lint, and we cast it all into the ocean. Jews all over the world do the same thing. When the water carries away the crumbs, it’s a sign that God is carrying away our sins. It’s all part of the Rosh Hashanah festival.”
“This boy is definitely getting a lesson on Jewish customs this year,” put in Mr. Melchior. He looked like he was returning to his friendly self now, trying to get things back to normal. “You don’t mind, do you, Peter? We’re not trying to convert you from being Lutheran, I hope you know.”
“I know,” said Peter, and he couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t mind learning.” He really didn’t. Then he thought of something.
“What happens if a bird comes and eats all the crumbs?” he blurted out. Mrs. Melchior looked puzzled. Henrik started to giggle. Peter felt almost the same way he did after his “one hundred herring” answer in school.
“No matter,” smiled Mr. Melchior between mouthfuls of cabbage. “It’s the thought that counts.”
Wake Up Call
10
After dinner, Henrik and Peter were in charge of the dishes. Of course, Henrik was drying because of his cast.
“So forget the bird race,” said Peter. “We can do other stuff... keep racing them around town. It was a stupid idea anyway. We knew your parents didn’t want you to get mixed up with my uncle.”
“Yeah,” Henrik said as he polished a plate extra hard. “Besides, it has been getting pretty scary outside lately.”
Both of them thought about the times in the past weeks when they had been close enough to the German soldiers to see reflections in their boots. And while they didn’t know too much about the war, they knew that there were German soldiers everywhere, not to mention German trucks, German ships, and German planes. Lately, Peter and Henrik were even scared to send Morse code messages between their windows.
“Hey, since you’re here tonight, we don’t even have to send a message,” said Henrik as they finished up the dishes and moved into the next room. Mrs. Melchior had pulled out a pile of fresh bed sheets, and they rolled them out on the floor next to Henrik’s bed.
“That’s another thing,” said Peter, pulling a corner of the blanket. “I’m not sure if we should be doing that signal light thing anymore. You know what happened to old Mrs. Bohr last week.”
Two nights ago, old Mrs. Bohr down the street had her living room window shot out just because she had forgotten to pull the blackout shade in time. A German soldier had simply aimed at the light. Of course, Mrs. Bohr didn’t remember much of anything these days, Peter’s mom said. She said the shot had gone through the window, through the living room wall, and all the way through to the next room. Just missed a photo of old Mr. Bohr, who had been dead for twenty some years. Peter didn’t know all the neighbors on their busy street, but when things like this happened, everybody noticed and did what they could.
Henrik didn’t say anything for a minute. He was slipping a pillowcase on a pillow, studying it hard. Then he looked up. “I thought about that, too,” he said. “Like I said, it’s a good thing you’re here tonight. So we don’t have to.” Then he smiled. “Maybe we should get little radios, like the Resistance guys.”
Just then Henrik’s mother called in from the hallway. “And don’t forget what happened to poor old Mrs. Bohr,” she said.
“Yes, Mother,” Henrik called back. “I mean, no, we won’t even think about touching the shades.”
With school the next day, the boys had to turn out their lights around nine. Peter had all his books with him, his backpack, a clean shirt, and some underwear. He was still amazed his parents let him spend the night on a Thursday.
After lights were out, the blackout shades made the Melchior living room seem darker than the inside of an icebox at midnight. Henrik and Peter both lay still, neither saying a word for a long time. Peter was in Henrik’s bed, and Henrik was down on the floor, comfortable on a thick oval rug.
“Peter, are you awake?”
“What else?” Peter whispered back. Henrik’s parents had gone to bed early, too.
“Are you upset that my dad won’t let us race the pigeons anymore?”
“He didn’t say that exactly,” Peter corrected him. “He just didn’t want you getting mixed up with my uncle anymore, or getting into too much trouble.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Peter had to think about that one for a minute. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I’ve thought about it lately, and, well, maybe your dad is right.”
Henrik didn’t say anything for a long time. Peter figured his friend was probably thinking about his father, and about being Jewish. Mr. Melchior seemed to worry too much. On the other hand, there was a lot to be worried about.
After a while, Henrik broke the silence. “I don’t know, Peter. I can’t figure it out. How long do you think this stuff is going to go on?” He was talking about the war, not about pigeons or parents. “I mean, we were nine when it started, weren’t we?”
“Eight, I think,” said Peter. “Yeah, eight, because it was the first year after you moved here that the Germans came.”
“So, do you think my dad’s right, though? About Danish Jews having to be so careful?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Peter whispered. “I’m only eleven, too. And just barely. But my dad says the Germans are starting to lose lots of battles now, and lots of people hope the Americans or the English will come chase them out pretty soon.”
“But about the Jews,” Henrik whispered.
“All I know is that if anybody ever comes looking for you, you can hide under my bed,” Peter said, giving up on the subject. How am I supposed to know?
“Not funny.” Henrik struggled to stay awake, but his voice was getting farther away, sleepier.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Peter said, sorry that he tried to make a joke when Henrik sounded so serious. He wanted to talk more, but in the darkness, he couldn’t think of what else to say. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, when we’re both more awake. “Henrik, are you awake?”
This time there was no answer.
As Peter drifted off, he wrestled with his own questions, the same way he had for the past few nights. It seemed like the only time he could really think. But there were too many questions, and they were winning the wrestling match. Danish Jews, or Jewish Danes? Did it matter? Why did the Germans seem to care so much? Never in his life had he heard so much talk about Jews, or about being Jewish, or being in trouble just because you were Jewish. Never, ever—and it was too much for him to figure out at that time of night.
Peter dreamed, and it was something really silly, like soldiers were shooting at his pigeons, and they were flying to Peter to hide. The birds were talking, yelling at him, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying because it was a different language.
“Peter! Peter!” He woke up in a sweat; someone was shaking him awake. It was Henrik, leaning over the bed, still in his pajamas. The hallway light was on, and Peter could just see his face. His eyes were wide with fright.
“Peter, wake up!” This was no dream, and Henrik in his pajamas was no talking pigeon.
“Huh?” said Peter, still groggy. “What’s going on?” He looked over at Henrik’s alarm clock on the dresser. Five thirty in the morning.
“My dad just woke me up,” said Henrik, his voice shaking a little. “He wants us to get dressed right away and get down to the kitchen.” Before Peter could complain, Henrik was out the door. So Peter pulled a pair of pants over his pajamas and followed as quickly as he could. Someth
ing was very wrong. He shivered, not just from the chill.
Stumbling down the hall and into the kitchen, he recognized the grocery storekeepers from down the street, Mr. and Mrs. Lumby, Ole the mailman, and a man named Albeck. They were all gathered around the Melchior dinner table, where Peter had eaten the holiday dinner just hours before. The expressions on their faces said they weren’t having a pleasant cup of morning coffee, though. Especially not at 5:30 a.m.
“I knew it was going to happen,” wheezed Mr. Lumby. His round, pink face seemed even pinker, he was so worked up. “I knew it. We couldn’t keep pretending we live in some kind of fairyland, that it would never happen here. Look what’s already happened to our people in Poland and Austria.”
“Okay, Lumby,” interrupted Ole. He was small and wiry, with a sharp chin and white, bushy eyebrows. But he was quick with a wave and a smile as he came bouncing down the street with his mail sack. Most of the kids liked him. He seemed different this morning, though—intense or nervous, like everyone else at the table. He was waving his hands and pointing as he spoke. “We know what’s happened all over Europe. It doesn’t do any good to throw up our hands and say it can’t happen here. It can and it has. Me, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Now we have only until tonight—twelve, maybe thirteen hours before the Germans begin their roundup. So we have to act, and we have to act now.”
“Well, as soon as I got the phone call from my cousin in Copenhagen, that’s when I called you,” said Mr. Albeck, looking at Henrik’s father, who was also sitting at the table. Then Peter remembered—Mr. Albeck was Henrik’s father’s brother in law. Henrik’s uncle. “I was out on a business call, or I would have known earlier. I just wish one of us would have heard a few hours earlier.”
“I don’t get it,” Henrik put in. He had been standing at the kitchen door with Peter. Neither of the boys really knew what everyone was talking about, but they were starting to get the idea that this was some sort of terrible secret they didn’t want to know.
