A Way Through the Sea (11 page)

“Oh, great,” said Peter. “I was going to stop by his house, but I wanted to get straight home instead.”

“Because of your outfit, right?” She started to giggle again.

“Come on, Elise. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t... not really. All the rest of that evening, Peter would feel himself shivering again. He kept thinking about what Uncle Morten had said to him.
Stop shaking,
he told himself as he got ready for bed around eight thirty.

“Going to bed so early?” his mom asked. “Are you sure you’re all right, after that dunking?” She walked over and put her hand on Peter’s forehead. He ducked, but she stayed with him.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

“Well, it’s been a long day for you,” she said, “and there’s no school tomorrow. You just get a good night’s sleep.”

“I will, Mom.”

Peter almost told her that he felt strange, but there was no reason to get her more worried than she already was.
I’ll feel better in the morning.

He lay awake in bed, listening to everyone else in the apartment. Ten minutes went by. Twenty. An hour.
So much for getting a good night’s sleep.
Maybe he couldn’t sleep because of the nap he’d had on the boat. He rolled over, pulled up the covers, twitched and scratched. He tried counting pigeons. But no matter what he did, his uncle’s voice kept playing over and over again in his head. “If you really want to follow Jesus, it’s your move.”

He put his pillow over his head, trying to make the thoughts go away, but, of course, they wouldn’t.
It’s my move.
Finally he fell into a restless sleep.

Rosh Hashanah

9

“One thing for sure,” Henrik announced as he and Peter were washing up for dinner at the Melchiors’ apartment later that week. He had a little trouble doing it one handed, his left arm still in a cast. But he managed all right. It was Thursday night, a school night, and somehow Peter’s mom and dad had allowed him to eat over at Henrik’s home. Maybe because it was a special Jewish holiday for the Melchiors, and Peter had been invited as the guest of honor. Peter was even going to be able to stay the night, which he didn’t understand at all because it wasn’t even a weekend. But both their moms had agreed over the phone, so he wasn’t going to argue. It was kind of like the way Peter’s grandfather had arranged for him to go out on the fishing boat. Strange, but okay.

“One thing for sure,” Henrik repeated as they sat down at the small dinner table in one corner of the apartment. “We can’t let the dumb old war stop the Great Danish Pigeon Race.”

“Oh?” Henrik’s dad had just sat down. His mother was bringing steaming dishes of food to the table, and the four of them were ready. “You had better explain that to me after we say the blessing.”

Mr. and Mrs. Melchior looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife. They were both short and a little dark, at least darker than most other Danes. Mr. Melchior had a crop of thin black hair, cut short around his ears. Luckily, Mrs. Melchior had a lot more hair than that, though it was the same color. Henrik said once that his great grandparents had come to Denmark from Portugal, which was why his family looked the way they did.

Mr. Melchior began the blessing. This wasn’t an ordinary night for Henrik and his parents, and it wasn’t an ordinary meal. It was, for Jewish families, the first day of the New Year celebration, called Rosh Hashanah. Henrik had said that this dinner was the first celebration in a ten day period that went all the way to something called Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. Peter was surprised they had invited him. He had never been to anything like this in the years since the Melchiors had moved to town.

The guest of honor didn’t know exactly what was going on, so he just watched. Mr. Melchior looked at Peter, and Peter felt like a tourist visiting the Kronborg Castle for the first time. Henrik’s dad was going to show him a place he had never been before, full of history and stories of people he had never met.

“This is the Kaddish, or blessing, that we say before having the wine,” explained Mr. Melchior. He held up a sparkling glass with a long, thick stem, and the ruby red wine sloshed around in it. “Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.”

After he had said that, Mrs. Melchior passed a plate to him, and he put down the glass for a minute. On the plate was a large loaf of bread—all braided. Then the tour guide looked at Peter again.

“This is a special Jewish bread,” he explained, “called hallah. It’s braided and made into a big, round hat shape. A crown. It reminds us of the King.” Then he continued with his blessing.

“Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

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 wanted 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.