Alis K crawls to him. BB is shooting out the window. More shots slam into the ceiling, sprinkling the room in clouds of plaster dust. She can hear herself moan, can’t help it, can’t stop it. Borge is bleeding terribly. He has been hit in the chest at least four times. Blood seeps from his nose. He looks at her and blinks. She touches his cheek. He tries to speak, but she can’t hear his word. She can’t hear anything. The world is gone, there are only the two of them left even as BB fires out the window again, yelling at Willy. That is all in another world. It’s got nothing to do with her. She puts her ear to Borges lips.
“I’m cold,” he gasps.
Alis K is feeling dizzy. She pulls up the collar of her white blouse, which isn’t really that white anymore. She should be trying to stop the bleeding, but there are so many wounds, and she doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t felt this helpless in years.
Pulling the blanket from the bed, she uses it to comfort Borge. What to do now? He will die if she doesn’t do the right thing, but what is the right thing to do? The blood is soaking through the blanket almost instantly. Putting a hand on top of the largest bloodstain, she presses down on the wound, but she can’t tell if it does any good. Besides, there are four quickly growing bloodstains on the blanket and she has only got two hands.
“I’m out of ammo!” BB shouts from the window. “Give me your gun!”
She doesn’t even look at him.
“Your gun, now!”
“But Borge—”
“Your gun!” BB crawls to her and rips the small Walther PPK from her purse. She grabs his arm, staining his clothes.
“What should I do?”
“Pray,” he says, glancing at Borge, before crawling back to the window.
The shooting outside has ceased. Now there is nothing but moaning. Someone is calling out for his mother in German. His voice sounding so young. Borge is completely still now. She touches his cheek. Is he dead?
“Willy?” BB shouts.
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
Borge is moving his eyes, not dead yet. He is trying to speak again. Bending over him, she puts her ear against his lips.
“We were supposed to be heroes,” he gasps.
She has got no words of comfort as his eyes turn to look up at the ceiling above her head.
“Alis K, this is it. We need to get away.” BB is shaking her.
“But Borge…”
“He’s dead.”
Looking at Borge, his eyes still staring at the ceiling, she reaches out to shut them, whispering sadly, “There’s no such thing as heroes.”
32
Later that night, they sit in silence inside the shelter in the basement of BB’s house. Nobody is speaking; the occasional clatter of footsteps from upstairs echoes through the silent shelter. Grete must be having another of her sleepless nights. The water pipes sing as she opens the tap in the kitchen. Feeling a distant ache inside his chest, BB turns to look at Alis K, who has been crying. Attempting to put on a brave smile, she fails completely. Willy is sitting at her side, moving one of his feet up and down, seeming lost in his own mind.
BB sighs, “Willy?”
The boy doesn’t react until Alis K nudges him. Then he stirs, looking puzzled.
“What happened tonight?” BB asks him.
“Don’t know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Unable to look at BB, he shrugs. His clothes are torn into pieces, the sleeves of his coat hanging loose. He has bloodstains on his pants.
Trying to find his pipe, BB claps his pockets, but the pipe seems to be lost. “There was no real operation tonight,” he says in a flat voice. “We were just pretending.”
“What?” The boy finally lifts his head to look at him.
“It was a setup made to reveal an informer in our group.”
“And it did…” Alis K mumbles. Pulling a small mirror from her purse, she turns away to examine her face in the light from lamp on the wall.
Willy’s eyes sway from BB to Alis K in astonishment.
“Borge planned this operation to reveal the informer. We all knew, except the one person we suspected to be the informer, that this was a fake operation. There were no explosives in our bags. We were not going to blow up anything. We were just there to see if the Germans had been informed. And if they had, we’d know who the informer was.”
The boy’s foot moves even faster up and down. He frowns, fear showing in his eyes now. “Me?”
“You.”
“You suspected me to be the informer? But…but…but…”
“I didn’t,” Alis K says, putting the mirror back inside her purse. “Borge and Jens did.”
“But the Germans were informed…I didn’t…”
“No.” BB puts his one leg over the other. “I suppose, Jens must be the informer. He has a habit of disappearing every time the Germans are setting up an ambush. At least lately.”
“Like I’ve said all the time.” Alis K straightens her skirt. “Now Borge is dead.”
BB can’t find the words. It is hard for him to comprehend the fact that Jens seems to be the only possible informer among them. How could he be? They started Sabotage Group BB together; they have been running it for more than a year. Side by side, they have faced death several times. They have saved each other’s lives. They have revealed and killed other informers along the way. How could Jens be the informer? He couldn’t. Only, there is not really any other possibility left, and lately he has been disappearing as the Germans showed up. He never did that before. It is not like him at all.
“I have not ratted on anybody…” the boy says in a thin voice. “I’ve fought the Germans every single night. I’ve shot them down until I had no more bullets. And I’m not going to stop. Borge said I was a hero. I’ve killed all the Germans I’ve ever had the chance to kill.” His eyes blink as he waves his hands. “I’m no rat.”
“No, you’re not the informer, but you need to get away. We’ve got to get you to Sweden as soon as possible. You’re too dangerous. You don’t just walk around the streets at night killing random soldiers.”
“They are the enemy.”
“We do not achieve anything by doing that. We need to be an invisible army hitting their weak spots. The factories, the trains. In that way, we can do significantly more damage to the German war machine, than we do by just killing a couple of random recruits. Besides, sooner or later you will get caught killing Germans like that, and we will all need to go underground.”
“I won’t get caught. I’m good at this.”
“That’s not up for discussion.” BB leaves the shelter to see if he might have an extra pipe lying around somewhere in the basement. He really needs his tobacco.
“Can we spend the night here?” Alis K asks through the door. “I’m not that eager to go out tonight. The Germans must be like mad dogs after that bloodbath.”
“You’ll stay put. You need to be very quiet. Neither my wife nor our maid must find you here.”
BB finds an old pipe on the shelf next to the toolbox and returns to the shelter, putting tobacco into the pipe.
“We’ll need some clothes.”
BB nods his head. It will be a difficult task as Grete is awake upstairs, but they can’t walk the streets looking like this. He has to manage getting some of Grete’s and his own clothes down here without Grete noticing it. He lights up the pipe, thinking
“Tomorrow, you and me will pay a visit to Jens to take care of things,” he says to Alis K.
“When?” Willy asks.
“You’re not coming. We’ll fix it.”
The foot starts moving again.
“I’d still like to hear what happened tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“You had an assignment. You were to stand guard while we were placing the explosives inside the factory. Suddenly, you are right in the middle of ever
ything killing Germans with a conquered heavy machine gun. How did that happen?”
“It was the fog. I couldn’t see anything.”
BB stares at him. There is something about the boy he will never understand. All he does understand is that they have given a gun to a boy and created a monster. Billy the Kid from Copenhagen. A desperado. Is he going to stop his killing if they get him away to Sweden?
“The fog was so thick. How was I to stand guard if I couldn’t see? So I went over to you guys. I had seen it all pointed out on the map, remember? But you weren’t there. Instead there were German soldiers everywhere.”
“So you decided to kill them all?”
“Well, they’re the enemy, right?”
33
Poul-Erik walks the streets, his head lowered. There is ice on the puddles. The sun is so bright it hurts his eyes. Rosenborg Castle lurks behind the wall and the naked trees on the left side of the street. His breath is hanging in front of his head like fog. He is too small for the suit he is wearing. It belongs to BB. The trousers are being held up by a piece of string around his waist, the jacket flops from his shoulders. He is unarmed. He lost the pistol at the operation last night. He guesses he should have taken one off the dead Germans. There sure were enough guns lying around for grabs. If he had only thought of it in time.
BB told him he would arrange for him to travel away to Sweden tonight, but he is not sure he will go. Will they try to make him go? By force? The way they stared at him, like he was some kind of freak. He made them feel unsafe. Even Alis K had that look.
Maybe he should go to Sweden. He has never been out of Copenhagen. It could be like an adventure. Get to sail the sea, see a foreign country. He can always come back.
He can also stay. Try to get into one of the other resistance groups. Holger Danske, maybe. They might need a new liquidator. Why quit now? The war isn’t over yet.
He turns around the corner at Borgergade and stops dead in his tracks. A large, black Ford is parked in front of the gateway leading to his home. Hipo. Definitely Hipo. They have come for him. He has been recognized. He swallows an imaginary lump, as he scans the street. The car is empty.
“Poul-Erik!” Beckoning him to come, his mother suddenly appears down by the Ford. She is all smiles. He has never seen her this happy in his entire life. At first, he can’t even recognize her. She has even got new clothes. A floral dress. She has had a bath as well, and it is not even Sunday. What is going on?
Beginning to walk towards her, he waves his hand.
“I was just out buying some open sandwiches,” she says, lifting a white cardboard box. “Your father is back home.”
“Oh.”
“Have you seen my new dress? I’ll bet this’ll make Mrs. Madsen next door a little envious, don’t you think?”
“Right.” She is so ecstatic she doesn’t even see that he is not wearing his own clothes.
“Well, there’s none for you!”
“Sorry?”
“Sandwiches. I had no way of knowing when you’d show up, young man. Have you got yourself a little girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on. I’m your mother. You can tell me stuff like that.”
Poul-Erik doesn’t answer. She is not her usual self. She’s not his mother. He doesn’t know her. She makes him feel unsafe. His stomach aches. They walk side by side through the gateway, past the first backyard, into the next gateway. She is still talking when a huge man appears at the other end of the gateway. Black uniform. Hipo. Poul-Erik can’t breathe. It is Hovgaard. The Hipo officer he was assigned to kill not so many days ago.
“Oh, but Mr. Hovgaard, are you leaving already?” his mother twitters.
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Smith, duty calls.” He tilts his head politely, lifting the cap. “A gentleman has to do his duties.”
“Indeed so, Mr. Hovgaard.” She gestures with her hand towards Poul-Erik. “My oldest son, Poul-Erik. He’s got an apprenticeship so he can become a smith like his father.”
Offering him a gigantic hand, Hovgaard turns to Poul-Erik with a flattering smile. “Good day, Poul-Erik. It sure is a couple of magnificent people you’ve got for parents.”
“Thank you.” Reluctantly accepting his hand, Poul-Erik gives it a quick squeeze, trying not to pull his hand away too fast. “Good day, sir.”
“Mrs. Smith.” The Hipo lifts his cap again and heads out to his black Ford.
They are halfway up the stairs, before Poul-Erik’s heart starts beating again.
Karl Smith is sitting by the dinner table holding a beer in his hand. He looks older, but he still has the same mean eyes, the same crew-cut hair, the same way of twisting his mouth askew, the same missing finger. Only the Hipo uniform is new.
“We’ve got some great news, my son!” Poul-Erik’s mother cheers. “Your father is going to be a police officer here in Copenhagen. He will not have to go to Germany to work anymore. Now, everything is coming our way!”
Poul-Erik just stands there.
“What do you say, son?” his father growls. “Doesn’t your father look great in his new uniform?”
“Here, have a beer, my boy,” his mother smiles. “Sit down. Now, we’ll have a real pleasant day. All of us.”
“Where are the little ones?”
“They’re with grandma.”
“How’s your apprenticeship coming along?”
“Okay.”
His father raises the bottle to toast him. “Cheers, my boy.”
“Cheers.”
“What are those clothes you’re wearing? A suit? How’d you get a suit?”
“I borrowed it from a friend.”
“So my son’s got friends who wear suits?”
He shrugs, sipping from the bottle.
“He lost his bicycle,” his mother says, placing the box of sandwiches on the table.
“It was stolen. It wasn’t my fault.”
“I’ll get it back for you.” His father sends him a confident smile. “And when I do find it, it’s going to be a sorry bastard sitting on it.”
“Right.”
“By the way, shouldn’t you be at your apprenticeship?”
“The Master Smith heard you were back in town. I got off early.” A quick lie.
“Oh, he did, did he? Word travels fast, eh?”
“You’re not just anybody, Karl. My private police officer.”
“Olga, my Olga.” He smacks her behind, laughing out loud. “Come sit down. I’ve sure got some stories to tell from Germany.”
“Doesn’t it make you proud of your father, Poul-Erik? Look at him in that uniform. Our dad is a real man!”
“That I am. There was no beating around the bush down in Sachenshausen when I was on guard. I can tell you that much. I had my way of getting their respect. Once, we had an attempted escape; nine Polish prisoners… Oh, wait, get me another beer, Olga. This one’s empty.”
Poul-Erik watches as his mother rushes for the kitchen. His dad in the Hipo? This can’t be happening. He can’t be sitting here, drinking with a Hipo. His dad is a Hipo pig. He is still afraid of him, but he is a hell of a lot more man than his father. He has killed more German soldiers than that jerk is capable of counting. He can’t be sitting here.
He closes his eyes, touching his forehead. Suddenly he realizes that he can’t live here anymore. He has to go to Sweden. There is no choice left for him. He has to get away from this.
“I’ve got an appointment,” he says, getting up.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
“No.”
His father takes his time getting up. Staring at him. Olga comes in with the beer, as he does so.
“No, Karl, not now. Take it easy. It’s our happy day.”
“He refuses to congratulate me, that puppy.”
“Poul-Erik. Congratulate your father!”
“No. I’m ashamed you’re my father. A Hipo pig for a father. That should make me feel proud? You make me sick!”
“Poul-Erik, congratulate your father!”
“No.”
The first blow hits Poul-Erik in the stomach, the next one throws him back into the wall. Now everything is back to normal. Now, Poul-Erik recognizes his family again.
34
“Stop!” BB shouts as Jens steps out of the allotment house carrying a cardboard box. Frowning, Jens stops dead in his tracks to examine their faces. BB is about three steps ahead of Alis K. Both have one hand deep within their coat pockets. “Put the box down, gently.”
Jens tilts his head, licking his teeth. “What’s going on?” he asks. Alis K moves her hand inside the pocket to point her pistol at him. Jens turns to BB.
“Get in the house, Verner. I need to talk to you,” BB says, obviously using Jens’s real name trying to intimidate him. This has a bad ring to it.
“Johannes, Ingrid,” Jens answers calmly, putting the box down on the grass. “Then come in.”
“Are you about to leave this place?” Alis K asks, when all three of them have made it inside the tiny house. His suitcase is lying open on the floor, clothes inside, a couple of boxes of booze and tobacco next to it.
“The neighbor was out in the garden looking in through the windows a few hours ago. I can’t stay.”
“You got another place to hide out?”
“Sure.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere. A basement in Gentofte. Is this an interrogation?”
“Yes,” Alis K says. “Borge is dead.”
“Your revolver, Verner.” BB holds his hand out to receive it. “Now.”
“But…” He shrugs, pulling the revolver out from behind the couch cushions. Holding it with just two fingers around the butt, he drops it into BB’s hand. “Here you go.”
Letting himself drop heavily on to the worn out couch, he shakes a cigarette out of the box. “You think I killed Borge? That’s why you come here all pushy, pointing your guns at me, calling me Verner? Sit down, please. Have a smoke, dammit. I haven’t touched him.”
The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) Page 11
