A Way Through the Sea (6 page)

“Looks kind of pretty on you, Peter.” Henrik was the one with the sense of humor, the one who found a joke in everything. “Matches your light hair.” He made a funny face, puckering up his fish lips as he got up and looked for a rag.

“Cut it out, Henrik,” sputtered Peter, by this time disgusted at the whole mess. “Your mom is going to kill you for this.”

“Yeah? So’s your mom,” he came back. Henrik had paint splattered on his dark hair, his face, and all over his clothes.

Peter wondered how they were going to get all the paint off. He started to say something, then he giggled and it was all over. He gave up trying to be mad. The two of them couldn’t stop laughing. They were still laughing when Grandfather and Elise came back.

She gasped, and Grandfather stopped before he had the door all the way open. His big, wide shoulders almost looked as if they wouldn’t fit through the doorway. Grandfather used to be a sailor, and he still seemed young like one, even with his wrinkled face.

Peter and Henrik sneaked a glance at him, waiting for him to say something. Henrik was still snorting and giggling, and Peter felt pretty silly.

“Well,” Grandfather finally cleared his throat, not moving from the doorway. He pulled at his chin and tried to look mean. “I can see you two have really mastered the technique, haven’t you?” He walked over to his workbench, brought out a couple of rags from a box below, and tossed them over to the boys. “There’s a little bit of paint thinner in the can by the window,” he said, pointing over at a shelf. “But don’t use more than a cupful. You’ll need it for real painting. Clean up the floor when you’re done with yourselves.”

Peter knew that gasoline was precious, with the German troops taking most everything the Danes had. Paint thinner being kind of like gas, it must have been stashed away from since before the war started. So Peter was surprised when Grandfather hadn’t been angrier. The old man only returned to the pump he was taking apart on the workbench. He was even chuckling to himself.

Peter turned to Henrik, who was rubbing off paint with a thinner soaked rag.

“Don’t worry,” said Henrik, scrubbing at a spot on his neck. “I only spilled a little can. It could have been a lot worse. And besides,” he added with a smile, “you were the one who made me fall.”

Peter was about to clobber him with his paintbrush when Elise came over with another rag and helped them scrub up a little more.

“I can’t believe you two made such a mess,” she said in her best motherly tone. Peter had seen her catch the worst dirt plenty of times. But this time, she had stayed clear of every paint speck.

“Thanks, Mom,” he teased. “I needed that.”

She threw the rag at him, but he ducked and it hit Henrik square in the face.

“Bull’s eye!” shouted Peter, forgetting for a minute that Grandfather was still around.

Henrik must have forgotten, too, because he whooped and pitched the rag straight back at Elise. But now Peter was in the line of fire, and it hit him on the back of the head.

“Hey, no fair,” said Peter.

By then Grandfather was getting annoyed. “All right, that’s enough, you kids. Clean up and get out now. Your mother wants you back soon for dinner, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah,” added Elise. “I forgot to tell you. We stopped at home on the way over here, and dinner’s going to be ready in fifteen minutes. You two better get cleaned up in a hurry.” She picked up the rag carefully between two fingers and tossed it at Peter while wrinkling her nose. “I wonder why I still hang around with two boys who throw paint at each other.”

“We’re just a lot of fun,” replied Peter. “Your other friends are kind of boring.”

“They are not!” retorted Elise. “Susan and Tina are lots of fun. See you at home.” Then she turned on her heel and was out the door.

Sisters,
thought Peter.
She should have been there when the real paint was flying.
Then he thought about himself and Henrik, splattered with that sickening yellow color, and he laughed to himself. Elise had, after all, mixed it up for them.

By then, the two boys were mostly cleaned up, and Henrik carefully put the top back on the can of paint thinner.

“Sorry about the mess, Grandpa,” said Peter as they headed for the door. There was still a big yellow gray spot on the wooden plank floor, where the paint had spilled.

His grandfather looked over at them with a trace of a smile on his face. “Don’t worry too much about it, boys,” he said. “I’m just not sure what your mothers are going to say. They’re going to think I let you do finger painting.” Then he put his pretend serious expression back on. “Now get on home to dinner. I hear there’s pigeon stew cooking.”

That was his regular joke, but they laughed anyway and yelled goodbye as they walked out. They went the long way around, along the water. It was warm out, and lots of people were enjoying the summer evening, strolling along the quayside in Helsingor Harbor.

Next to Grandfather’s combination boathouse and pigeon coop, Peter liked the harbor best. It was a mix of fishing trawlers, small freighters, ferries that sailed right over to Sweden, tugs, and other workboats. Uncle Morten unloaded his boat there, too. Actually, the boat still belonged to Grandfather, but the two of them had been fishing together for as long as Peter could remember. They still went out together, but it was Uncle Morten more and Grandfather less. No one seemed to mind the arrangement.

Their boat, the
Anna Marie
, was named after Peter’s grandmother, the one he had never met. He was hoping to see the boat come in, so he and Henrik sat on a stone bench with a good view of the harbor entrance.

“We never figured out your uncle,” said Henrik, watching the boats as they came in. He was looking straight ahead, scratching a little patch of paint off his elbow.

“Nope,” replied Peter. They glanced at each other for a second. Peter wondered why Henrik was trying to think about it so much, even as he himself was trying his best to forget it. “But what do we do? We can’t just go up to him and say, `Hey, Uncle, are you in the Resistance?’ “

“No, I guess not,” said Henrik. “I just can’t stop thinking about that meeting in the woods. It’s like a big mystery we’ve just
got
to solve.”

“Remember, he’s still my uncle,” said Peter.

“Right. But we can keep our eyes open, and if—"

“Here he comes,” Peter interrupted Henrik. He could just make out the bright, clean blue hull of the
Anna
coming through the breakwater that separated the harbor from the waves of the Sound beyond. Uncle Morten was leaning out of the little pilothouse; he spotted Peter and Henrik, and waved to them. They waved back.

Morten scuttled through the narrow opening and made for his spot at the pier, the old engine making its funny
chug cough, chug cough
sound. It was an ancient boat, originally built for sail. Still, it looked better than most of the newer ones, the way Morten babied it. A noisy flock of seagulls followed close behind—a good sign. They were quick to swoop down on whatever the big fisherman tossed in his wake. Peter’s uncle was the only fisherman the boys knew who could navigate, steer, fish, and clean up afterward, all at the same time. When he pulled up to the pier he had his catch all packed away, ready to sell to the harbor’s fish buyer, and all the scrap fish thrown overboard. Usually there was no wait, the way he did things.

“Heeey, Uncle Morten,” Peter yelled, grabbing the line that was thrown to him. “Catch anything?”

“Catch anything?” Uncle Morten called back. “Don’t you see the gulls?”

Peter and Henrik helped tie up the
Anna
while Morten rigged a crate of herring to the end of a cable. Since it was low tide, Peter had to crank the handle of a small crane on the top of the dock until the box of silvery fish was hauled up to dock level. His arms strained as the catch seemed to get heavier. Then Uncle Morten swung his big muscled legs up the ladder and over the top rung, and brought the crate in. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “You’re going to have to come out with us one of these times, as soon as my brother feels you’re old enough.”

His brother was Peter’s dad, who hadn’t given in yet to letting Peter or Elise go out with Grandfather and Uncle Morten. Henrik seemed to have cold feet about asking his own parents, and Peter wondered if they would ever say yes anyway.
One of these days.

“Hey, speaking of your dad,” said Uncle Morten, looking at his watch, “don’t you two boys ever eat dinner?”

“Dinner!” Peter’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t even thought of the idea since Elise had come to get them at the boathouse. Now he would be in trouble for sure. Henrik moaned.

“I totally forgot, too,” said Henrik. “We better go, Peter.”

They started running back toward town before Henrik had finished the sentence. They raced down Stengade—Stone Street—past Helsingor’s huge old church with the tall spires, and past the old brick City Hall. Ahead of Peter, Henrik turned one way to get to his house and waved back without looking. Peter turned the other way onto his narrow street, Axeltorv Street—Axel’s Market Street. This was another one of those times when he was glad he didn’t live far from the harbor.

As Peter rushed past the bakery two doors down from his apartment, the baker, Mr. Clausen, was just locking up for the night. Usually, Peter would have stopped to say hi, but he ran past as fast as he could go.

“Late again, Peter?” called Mr. Clausen, chuckling.

It had been fifteen or twenty minutes down at the harbor, at least. Peter wasn’t sure, but he knew it had definitely been longer than a few minutes.
Dinner? How long did Elise say it would be? Ten minutes? Yeah, I’m going to be in trouble. Again.

Peter pushed open the street level door, then took the long, narrow stairway three steps at a time. Out of breath at the top, he was afraid to look over at the table, where everyone was sitting, finishing dinner. Elise gave him one of her “Where were you?” looks. Peter knew he was in deep, hot water. Their mother was the first to say anything after Peter sat down, but it took a minute.

“You heard your sister tell you dinner was ready?” Her small, pretty face—framed by her shoulder length, curly red hair—normally wore a smile. She was a little woman, smaller even than her growing children. Mr. Andersen’s pet name for her was “Spunky Owl,” which doesn’t translate very well from the Danish but which fit her perfectly. Tonight she was not smiling.

“Maybe I didn’t say exactly how long it was to dinner,” Elise piped up, obviously trying to defend her brother. Not a chance.

“I was asking Peter,” said her mother, waiting for Peter’s answer.

He nodded, looking down. “She said it was going to be ready soon.”

“Too bad it’s ice cold now,” said Mr. Andersen, his voice sounding as cold as the food on Peter’s plate. “Finish it and go to your room right away. No staying up tonight.”

Peter nodded again, relieved at the light punishment.

“You know this isn’t the first time,” his mother continued. Peter knew she would say that, too. “What were you investigating this time, a crab or a sailing ship from China?” That wasn’t quite a joke, but Peter hoped it was a sign she was lightening up. Elise sat stiffly in her chair, as if waiting for the storm to pass.

“I was just helping Uncle Morten tie up the boat and bring up the fish,” Peter explained in his best “I’m really sorry I forgot to come to dinner again on time” voice. He knew by the look on his parents’ faces that apologies weren’t going to do much good this time.

He chewed in silence—his mouth full of cold potato. The fish and cabbage were cold, too, but it didn’t matter much. Since the war had begun, everyone’s dinners had gotten plain and cold.

“And your mother didn’t work hard on that food to have you not show up,” added his father. Now Peter was getting it from both sides of the table. Maybe if it was
flaeskesteg
, the delicious roast pork they used to have before the war, it would be easier to remember and come to dinner on time. No, he didn’t dare say that. His mother couldn’t help it if all she had to buy food with was ration cards, and no one had enough bread, sugar, bacon, butter, or coffee. Mrs. Andersen got the cards every two or three months at a Ration Office; she needed them every time she went to the store. And when they were gone, that was it.

“I’m really sorry, Dad,” said Peter, finishing his glass of water. “I’ll try not to forget again. Really.” He looked up, and both his parents were frowning at him. Elise, who always acted nervous when her brother got into trouble, started clearing plates. It wasn’t because Peter was trying to disobey, at least not in a sticking your tongue out kind of way. It was just so easy to forget sometimes, and then when he remembered, it was too late. Only that wasn’t much of an excuse anymore, and Peter knew it. He finished his cold meal, piled the dishes by the sink, where Elise was doing them, and started shuffling down the hall. He sighed.

“And what’s that funny color all over your hair?” his mother asked.

“Um, nothing,” he replied, closing his bedroom door behind him.
Please, not more trouble.
“Just some Dead Lily,” he said through the door. His room was at the end of the hall, and it was not much more than a closet, really: big enough for his bed and a small dresser. If he stood on his bed, he could have seen the harbor through his window—that is, if all the other buildings weren’t in the way. Elise had a room just like it, one door down. Their parents shared a slightly larger bedroom. Though their rooms were small, they knew they were lucky. A lot of their friends at school didn’t have their own rooms.

Even during the long summer evenings, like that night, it never seemed to get too hot in their apartment. Mrs. Andersen would open up the large double windows in the living room, and the smell of her flowers floated all through the apartment. She was especially proud of her purple flowers; Peter forgot what they were called.

He lay on top of his bed with his clothes on, smelling the late summer. Elise was still washing the last dishes in the kitchen. Outside, past the flowers, he could smell a little salt air from the Sound, a little bit of fish—maybe from his uncle’s boat, maybe from his hands. Sometimes he pretended that he could even smell all the way to Sweden, that smudge of land across the water.