by Robert Elmer
“Well, you surely can’t row back.”
No argument there.
“If our uncle is still around...” Elise volunteered. She, too, was barely holding on, about to fall asleep.
“We will see tomorrow. Tomorrow,” finished the captain. “But right now, it’s already morning.” He had never explained to them what he was doing out at that time of night, but everyone was too tired to ask now. “You kids will sleep here on the boat.”
Again no argument. The man steered them toward a little room behind the wheelhouse with two narrow bunks on each side, one above the other. He shoved a pile of dry clothes into Henrik’s arms.
“There should be something that will fit you in there,” said Captain Knut. Then he was gone. Peter and Henrik gratefully crashed into a cocoon of blankets and cushions. Elise found a bunk in the empty pilothouse, and she was asleep in a minute.
In his little bunk above Peter, Henrik was tossing about, trying to get comfortable.
“Hey, Henrik,” Peter broke the silence. “Are you awake?”
“Where have I heard that question before?” he asked. “No, I’m asleep. I feel like sleeping for a year. I was asleep fifteen minutes ago.”
Peter felt just as tired, but he had to say something. Maybe I won’t see him again for a long time. “Henrik, do you think you’ll come back soon?”
“I don’t know, Peter,” he said, sounding farther away. “All I can think about is finding my mom and dad.”
“I know.” There was a pause. “I’ll take care of Number One for you.”
Then it was quiet, and Peter thought his friend had fallen asleep.
“Thanks, Peter. Thanks for everything.”
“It was nothing.”
“Liar. It was too something.”
Peter smiled but couldn’t say anything else. The last thing he remembered was Henrik kind of moaning as he dropped off to sleep. It sounded as if he were saying something, or calling out, but Peter was too tired to understand anyway. He let his hand flop down to the pigeon’s basket. Someone had stashed it there on the floor between the two bunks. He gently poked his finger at the bird, which rustled a little at his touch. We’ll check on Number One in the morning. It had been a long trip for a bird in a basket.
On the Other Side
15
Peter thought it had to be a dream, the way voices were yelling all around him. He was wrapped up in old blankets, wearing someone else’s old work clothes, and his bed was rocking. Probably Elise, trying to get me up. But it was men yelling, and they were all yelling in a language he couldn’t understand, at least not completely.
Then his head started to clear. No dream. This is Sweden. Henrik was snoring in the bunk above him. Elise was on the boat, too, and they were in the little cabin of Captain Knut’s fishing boat. The voices outside were fishermen and dock workers, yelling the same kinds of things in Swedish Peter heard all his life on the docks back home in Helsingor. He popped up on one elbow to see what was going on and knocked his head silly on the bunk bed frame above his head. That was a sure way to wake up in a hurry.
“Hey,” mumbled Henrik from somewhere under his blankets. “What’s going on?”
Peter didn’t say anything, but he felt the boat rock slightly as someone got on. It seemed as though he had just fallen asleep, and he had, really—five hours earlier. In a moment, the man from the night before, Captain Knut, poked his head into the tiny cabin. It wasn’t completely light out yet, but there was a little bit of pink morning sunshine showing through a small porthole.
“The sun is rising in the east!” rumbled the man in a kind of bass voice that shook the last sleep from everyone’s head. He was singing a Danish song, but it sounded like something only halfway between the two languages, close as they were.
Okay, okay, we’re awake. Both boys groaned.
“Hey, come on,” said the captain. “Your sister is already up. And I thought you wanted to find your parents.”
“That’s Henrik,” replied Peter, his eyes still closed. “I just wanted to catch a ride back home on my uncle’s boat.”
“Right.” The big fisherman nodded. “I’ve made a couple of calls already this morning, and I’ve found out where most of the Danish people went to last night. Mostly to the big city.”
“Hälsingborg,” said Elise. She was wide awake and had popped her head into the little cabin. Peter didn’t feel alive—yet.
“Right again. Mostly your Danish boats have been coming over just into our waters, and then the people—I mean the Jews—are transferred over to Swedish boats. It works better that way. The Danish boats are free to return quickly, and they don’t attract as much attention that way.”
He looked around as if to see if anyone was listening. Elise pulled on her brother’s foot. “Hey—are you awake, Peter?” she asked.
Peter didn’t answer, so Captain Knut looked at Elise. “But not always,” he continued. “I also found out that two or three boats came all the way over, to the harbor just up the coast at Viken, the—"
“Which ones?” Henrik and Peter interrupted at the same time. They were awake now.
“I was just telling you,” he laughed. “The Saint Hans and the Anna Marie. Either of those sound familiar?”
He already knew, of course. Henrik had told him all about the boat the night before. The Anna Marie!
Within five minutes, they had piled into someone’s rusty Volvo car. Henrik, Elise, Peter, and the bird took the backseat; Captain Knut and another fisherman he introduced as Gunnar sat in the front. They munched on crusty bread and cheese from the boat, and Henrik tried to feed the bird. Elise looked over at the boys and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Peter, giving her a puzzled look. He was wearing a pair of paint spattered work pants, and a sweater that had been used as a rag, probably in the engine room.
“Your clothes,” she said. “You look like you just washed up on the beach.”
“As a matter of fact"—Peter tried to act serious—"I did, and so did you. And you don’t look too great either.”
Elise had to wear a ripped old pair of dark green slacks and a red sweater; both were way too big for her. They all looked funny, but who could complain? They were warm, dry, and starting to feel fed again. The captain chattered in the front as they bumped down the Swedish country road. Henrik kept feeding bread to his hungry bird.
“They’re in the next town up the coast, like I said.” Peter saw the captain’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he spoke. “That’s all I could find out, except that there was some kind of problem with one of the boats. Probably that’s why they came all the way over. Engine trouble or something.”
“You’re not sure?” Henrik asked, a worried expression on his face.
“They didn’t say. They didn’t know.”
Their new friend never said who “they” were; but no one asked. Peter remembered the other “they” from the night before and shuddered. He was glad just to be there.
“It’s just down the road here,” said Captain Knut after a few more minutes. His crew member didn’t say anything, only grinned and nodded once in a while. He wasn’t following this mixture of Swedo Danish.
The captain was right; it wasn’t five minutes before they pulled out of the coastal woods, down a small hill into a clearing, and then into the middle of the harbor town: Viken. It was clustered around a small, rocky bay, where a few tired looking fishing boats sat at anchor. More workboats were tied up at what looked like the town’s main pier. Henrik strained out the window for a look, and the car came lurching around the last corner before the waterfront.
Peter caught sight of the Anna Marie’s bright blue trim first. “I see it!” he whooped.
“Where? Really?” Henrik missed it, then it was right in front of the car as they skidded in the gravel yard by the pier.
“Here we are,” said the captain. Henrik and Peter were flying out the doors even before the car was all the way stopped.
A
couple of fishermen were down by the pier already; one of them almost dropped his toolbox as the three crazy Danish kids sprinted down to the Anna. The little fishing boat was tied up at the pier, between two Swedish boats about the same size.
Captain Knut asked the men on the waterfront a few quick questions, and they pointed to a cluster of brightly painted yellow and white houses on a street that tumbled straight down from the low hills behind the harbor. A couple of people were walking down the narrow street, out for their morning chores. Peter wondered where everyone could be, but not for long.
“Henrik! Henrik Melchior! You stay right there!” a man bellowed in Danish. They couldn’t tell where the shout came from, so they just stood there, looking bewildered. There was a stirring in one of the houses, and people started to run around inside. A window slammed, then a door, and then two people were racing down the street. It was Henrik’s parents, moving faster than Peter had ever seen them move before.
“Henrik! Henrik! Henrik!” His mom was sobbing before she even reached the pier, and then there was a tangle of hugging and kissing, and more hugging. This went on for what seemed forever to Peter. He and Elise got dragged into it a couple of times, even though he tried to stay out. He came up for air and saw the captain leave for his car. Knut looked straight at Peter and Henrik.
“Thanks,” Peter shouted at him. By now he couldn’t help crying too, like Elise and the rest.
“Thousand thanks,” Henrik added, waving at the man.
Captain Knut just smiled a broad smile, nodded for a moment, and ducked into the little car with his crewman. In a moment, they had disappeared down the road, leaving behind only a blue cloud of smoke. Then Mr. Melchior held Peter and Elise by the shoulders and shook them in a friendly way.
“So you’re the ones responsible for bringing my son to safety, are you?” His face was streaming with tears. Peter hadn’t known dads could cry like that, too.
“We just couldn’t think of what else to do, sir,” Peter explained. “You see, we were watching what happened out on the street, and Henrik got left behind, and he was supposed to be in the trunk of the last car, but then he had to go to the bathroom, and—"
“That’s okay,” Mr. Melchior interrupted Peter’s stammering. “There’s plenty of time now to tell the story. What matters most is that we are safe—and together.” Mrs. Melchior tugged on his arm. “And you’ll have much to talk about with your father here, Peter and Elise.”
“My father?” said Elise, not understanding. “Here? What about Uncle Morten?”
“He will best explain that to you,” said Mr. Melchior, suddenly very serious. “We’ve had a long trip, too, I’m afraid, in more ways than one. And a costly one.”
That’s when Peter felt another hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to look straight up at his own father. Dad! What is he doing here?
Elise saw her father at the same time, and she launched herself up, arms around his neck, the way she used to when she was a little girl.
The twins nearly squeezed the breath out of their father, and it wasn’t until they were back in the warm living room of the local inn that it started to sink in for Peter: Dad is really here, here in Sweden. Dad the stranger, the one who never knew what was going on. Dad the rescuer.
Mr. Andersen hardly said a word as Elise and Peter spilled out the whole story, for the second time, from the mixup with the escape car to the long, long ride in the little rowboat. Peter told him everything, even a few things he hadn’t told Captain Knut, like the times he got seasick and how scared he was. Elise told him about almost getting caught in the streets of Helsingor and how they had run. It didn’t seem to matter now what kind of trouble they might get into; they just told him everything.
Mr. Andersen nodded, listening carefully to every word. His two children must have gone on for something like an hour, nonstop. But finally they were done, and to Peter it was as if he had just unloaded the biggest burden he had ever carried.
Then Mr. Andersen scooted his chair up closer, and he looked straight at both of them. “Elise, Peter, I’m proud of you,” he said quietly. It was their turn to listen. “Even though as your father it scares me to death to hear what you did.”
“Because you did the same thing?” asked Peter.
“Maybe, Peter. The important thing—and I think Henrik’s father said this already—is that you’re both safe. And because of what you did, the Melchiors are all safe.”
Then a dark thought flashed across Peter’s mind. “But what about Uncle Morten?” he asked. “You haven’t told me what happened to him, or even why you’re here.”
Elise looked at her father with a worried expression.
Peter’s father pressed his lips together, stood up, and looked out of the room’s small window. No one had been in or out since they had been sitting there, only an old woman Peter assumed was the innkeeper.
“You know, I always admired my brother,” said Mr. Andersen to the window. The sun was streaming in on his face. “He was always the brave one. But we were so different. He took after your grandfather—fishing... the outdoors. He could do everything.”
Peter wasn’t sure if that was the answer yet to his question, so he kept still. Elise sat there, too, knotting her fingers.
“I was the studious one,” he continued. “The clever one, the one who could figure. A lot like you, Peter. And in some ways, like you, too, Elise. So I ended up in the bank—counting.” He looked down at his hands. They were scratched and bruised. Peter’s and Elise’s hands weren’t very pretty either, with all the blisters. They hurt like fire now that Peter thought of them. Elise’s hair was tangled like spaghetti, too, but somehow none of that mattered.
“It’s not that I regret it, it’s just...” He turned around and faced Peter and Elise. His eyes were brimming with tears now, and Peter still didn’t know what had happened to Uncle Morten. “Your uncle was captured on the beach last night,” he said finally. His voice cracked. “We had everyone loaded on the boat except Mr. Lumby and the people who were supposed to come in the Mercedes. We didn’t know what had happened to them, but we couldn’t wait any longer. Morten decided to take one last look for them, and he took the rowboat back to the beach. A German patrol—they had a dog—came down the beach just then. Morten didn’t have a chance to run or anything. There was just no chance.”
“But what did you do, Dad?” Peter said, stunned.
“We couldn’t do anything, except head out of there as fast as we could. We had to take a zigzag, roundabout course. I’m still not sure why no one caught us before we reached Sweden. We kept going all the way over, and the engine was making a funny noise. I’m surprised we didn’t run you kids over out there rowing around.”
“But what will happen to Uncle Morten now?” asked Elise.
“I don’t know, Elise. First he’ll probably stay in a prison somewhere in Denmark. Maybe Vestre Prison, in Copenhagen. They’ll try to force information out of him. But I doubt if the Germans will learn much from him.”
Peter squirmed in his chair at the thought of his uncle in a prison, a prison with Nazi guards. “Is there any chance he’ll get out, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t tell you, because I don’t know.”
Then Elise jumped up suddenly. “Mom!” she cried. “Where was Mom during all this?”
“That’s the other thing,” explained Mr. Andersen. “Apparently all sorts of things happened after I left with the first car. I was surprised—and upset—to find your mother in the second car, riding with old Mrs. Clemmensen. But we got them untangled, and Mrs. Clemmensen finally got in the boat somehow. I told your mom to wait in the truck, to wait for me so we could drive back home together.”
“But you never got back to the car!” said Elise, horrified.
“She would have figured it out, I know,” he said. But even he looked a bit worried. “She’s going to be out of her mind at home, though, even if she is all right. I’ll tell you this.” He looked at E
lise and pointed down for emphasis. “I’m going to make sure she never has to go through this kind of thing again. And you, too.”
That was all they talked about the rest of the day: Mom, how worried she would be, and getting home as soon as they could. They had to wait until it was dark again, a terribly long time. Then there was a second goodbye with the Melchiors, who would stay in Sweden for the rest of the war, however much longer it lasted. Peter’s father had to leave the Anna Marie over in Sweden, too, and Mr. Melchior was left in charge of finding a place for it, someone who could care for it for a few months. It was no use, said Mr. Andersen, taking it right back to Denmark.
“How could we explain coming back in that boat,” he asked, “especially if the Nazis figured out who it belonged to?”
When night fell again, the three Andersens ended up getting a ride back over in a Swedish boat, one of the boats tied up right next to the Anna Marie. As they retraced their route back toward home, Peter sat in the corner of the dark wheelhouse, staring out the window. Elise was quiet, too, until one of the three Swedish fishermen on the boat came up to speak to the man steering. They spoke for a moment in low tones, pulled a chart from a rack overhead, and briefly turned a flashlight on to study it. Peter and Elise both stared at the man’s face, lit up for a moment in the light. Peter started to sputter.
“You’re the man in the woods!” Peter was finally able to say, above the clatter of the boat engine.
“You’ve met this man before?” asked Mr. Andersen.
“A few months ago,” explained Elise. “In the woods. By accident, and he was with Uncle Morten.”
Finally the Swedish man remembered, and he smiled slightly.
“Oh, yes, you must be Morten’s niece and nephew,” said the man, looking up from his chart, “the ones who came crashing through the woods that day.” Then his expression clouded over. “I heard what happened to your uncle, your brother. I’m sorry.” He turned away from Peter and Elise, and looked back out the window toward the darkness of Sweden. Then he stepped out of the wheelhouse, leaving them alone again.
