A Way Through the Sea (8 page)

“You don’t know the first thing about birds, anyway,” she said. By now, everyone on that side of the room was listening. Peter guessed Keld and Jesper were as surprised as anyone, including himself. “And if you had any birds, they would probably... probably fly away from you as fast...”

This war of words might have gotten serious if the school’s air raid siren hadn’t sounded just then, drowning out the rest of what Elise was saying. She looked around the room like the rest of the lunch crowd, as if expecting to see planes through the ceiling. In a moment Mr. Isaksen took charge.

“Everyone down to the cellar, please,” boomed the teacher when the siren dimmed for a moment. “Line up at the door.”

Everyone picked up their lunches and started shuffling toward the door, while the wail of the siren went on. They had done this before. But no matter how many times he heard it, the rising and falling wail always gave Peter the shivers. All he wanted to do was plug his ears... and be somewhere else.

They would spend the next few minutes, or maybe hours, in the school’s cellar until the steady sound of the all clear siren. Actually, it wasn’t too bad because it gave them a chance to read or catch up on homework. No one even cried anymore, the way the younger kids had during the first one or two years of the war. They just lined up by the teacher with his hand in the air, chattering as if there were no British planes flying over on their way to bomb Germany.

Peter thought about it, though, and he didn’t like the thought. Only once in a while did bombs fall on their own country, on special German targets. Still, it made him nervous. One thing he was sure of, though: It got very stuffy in the cellar with all the kids down there.

In all the excitement, Peter had almost forgotten about Keld. The boy was red, as if steam was pouring out of his ears, but he didn’t say a word until he brushed past Peter.

“When you’re least expecting it, Andersen,” he half shouted, straight into Peter’s ear. Even the constant sound of the siren didn’t drown his voice out. “When you don’t have a girl to stick up for you... you’ll wish you weren’t alive.”

Peter pretended he couldn’t hear him. But when he looked back to find Elise, she was gone.
I’ll thank her tonight, when I get the chance.
Actually, except for the fear that Keld would probably jump him in an alley someday and knock him silly, Peter didn’t mind whoever wanted to stand up against Keld and Jesper. It had just surprised him that it was his own sister. Then Henrik brought him back to reality.

“Come on, Peter,” he said, tugging at his friend’s shirt. “Are you going to stand there dreaming all day? We have to get down to the air raid cellar.”

The cellar was just like another classroom, really, only there were no windows, and it was only big enough for the whole school—all two hundred kids—to cram into. Peter and Henrik found seats with the rest of their class and took the reading books that were being passed around. It was a spooky feeling being down in the cellar. The sound of the siren somewhere above them made it worse.

It was a short stay this time, though. They had hardly gotten their books open when the steady all clear siren sounded, and it was time to go back up to their normal classrooms.

“That was quick, don’t you think?” Henrik poked Peter as they passed back their books. “The Brits must have been just passing through again.”

“Yeah, they must have,” Peter replied, but his mind wasn’t on air raids. The rest of the afternoon, Peter had to pinch himself a couple of times to keep with it—to not daydream about fishing boats or worry about being attacked by bullies.
Only two more hours.
He looked up at the clock in their classroom as Mr. Isaksen droned on about a spelling test.
Make that two and a half—until school’s out at three thirty. No more bird brained answers. Just stay with it.

Henrik was waiting in the school yard when Peter finally came out that afternoon.
Good old Henrik.
He looked as if he was still excited about what had happened at lunch.

“Hey, that was some speech from your sister, wasn’t it?” Henrik asked as the two jogged along the street. “Elise scared the socks off old Keld and Jesper.”

“Uh huh.” Peter was thinking about old Keld and Jesper jumping out of an alley, so he kept an eye out as they slowed to a walk.

“I mean, I was impressed, weren’t you?” Henrik went on. “Did you see the way Keld just stood there and took it, before the air raid? His ears turned beet red.”

“I saw.”

Henrik obviously hadn’t heard Keld’s last message, but Peter wasn’t going to say anything else.
Maybe Keld will forget all about it,
thought Peter, looking carefully around the corner.
But maybe not. Anyway, if I’m going to live past today, I had better keep an eye out.
They continued on silently until they reached the door to Henrik’s little apartment on Star Street, next door to the neighborhood pawn shop.

Theirs looked like so many others in the city, a neatly painted narrow black door with numbers and a small brass plate. “E. Melchior.” Henrik took the stairs three at a time, with Peter right on his heels. In the tiny living room, where Mrs. Melchior was folding laundry, Henrik dumped his books on the couch. She looked a lot like her son, or her son like her—dark haired, attractive, with sharp features.

“Hello, Mother, guess what?” Henrik asked in the same breath.

“Come in, and don’t leave your books on the couch,” she answered. She smiled at Peter.

“Mother, Peter’s dad said it’s okay with them. Can I go, too?”

“If I knew what Mr. Andersen said okay about, I could answer you better,” she said, looking up from a pair of socks she was folding.

“Oh, yeah,” said Henrik. He was catching his breath. “Fishing. Going out on their boat. Just for a day. We’d be back before dark. Peter’s going.”

“I’m not so sure, Henrik,” said his mother. “That’s something we’ll have to discuss with your father tonight when he gets home from work.”

“Thanks, Mother. He’ll say yes, won’t he?” Henrik was a pretty good salesman when he wanted to be.

“We’ll have to see about that.”

That’s about what Henrik and Peter had expected, and it was better than a flat out no. There was no time to lose, though, so they ran on to Peter’s apartment, three blocks away, where Peter dumped his books.

“I’ll be back for dinner, Mom,” said Peter. “Uncle Morten just needs a little help getting the boat ready so we can leave first thing tomorrow morning. So bye.” He finished his sentence as the door slammed behind them. He thought his mother said, “Dinner five thirty.” Something like that.
Or was it six?

Down at the harbor, Uncle Morten had the floorboards of the fishing boat pulled up and stacked all over the wheelhouse, and the engine in the bottom of the small boat was in pieces. Grandfather was there, too, up to his waist in engine parts. He looked like one of those Greek mythological characters, half boat engine on the bottom and half person on the top. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands and wrists were black with grease.

“Try it again, Morten,” he said to his son. Peter’s uncle was at the spoked wooden wheel, perched above the engine and balancing on a couple of beams where the floorboards used to be. He punched the big black starter button next to the wheel. Nothing happened. No click, no whir, no sound. Uncle Morten looked up long enough from what he was doing to flash a smile as Henrik and Peter climbed onto the boat.

“Hey, boys,” he said. “You’re just in time to help us get some things loaded while we fix this starter.” He looked down at his father again. “That is, if we
can
fix this starter. Think you can go back up to the shed and fetch those three piles of rope by the workbench? There’s a lot more.”

“Sure,” said Henrik. Peter climbed after him back up the ramp that led down to the boat dock.

“Hey, these ropes are heavier than I thought,” Peter grunted as they struggled with one pile. The ropes were hard to get a handle on. As his grandfather would say, it was like trying to put socks on an octopus.

Trip after trip the boys struggled with those piles of rope, and then fishing floats, tools, and extra parts Uncle Morten directed them to bring down to the boat. Elise arrived a few minutes later and helped with a few loads as well. The three of them were picking up the last load in the boathouse when they heard the roar of the boat engine down on the dock. They looked at one another and cheered, then piled everything that was left into their arms. Peter could hardly see over the top of his armload, and by the time they were halfway down the ramp, he heard the engine shut down again. He looked over his load to see a man in a gray uniform standing by the boat. It was not a Danish policeman.

Without thinking, he froze in fright, and Henrik (with the same kind of load in his arms) bumped hard into him from the rear. In one scary moment Peter felt himself tumbling down the ramp headfirst. They turned into a tangle of arms, legs, a mop, buckets, a piece of rope, and a spare part for the engine, and they couldn’t stop until they were lying in a heap at the German soldier’s mirror shiny high boots. He didn’t move an inch, as if he were daring the boys to crash into him. Elise stood helplessly at the top of the ramp, her eyes wide with horror. At the bottom of the heap, Henrik let out a shriek of pain but stopped abruptly when he saw the German. It sounded as if a big hand had clamped hard over his mouth.

Peter didn’t want to look up, but he had to, and he saw a frowning German officer, looking down his nose at a tangle of boys and boat stuff.

“Who are these two?” the officer demanded. His Danish sounded mainly like German, but Peter could tell he wasn’t fooling around.

“Just my grandson and his friend,” Grandfather explained. “They’re helping get the boat ready, putting in some supplies. Are you all right, boys?”

The officer didn’t wait for Peter or Henrik to answer. “I see that,” he snipped. He was probably Uncle Morten’s age, tall, straight, and dark haired. He was standing as if he wore a board under the back of his gray wool uniform. One hundred percent serious. The only thing that looked out of place was his crooked nose, which had obviously been broken somewhere along the line. “Are they regular crew members?”

“No,” replied Grandfather. “They’re just kids.”

The two boys untangled themselves and tried to pick up some of the mess, the stuff that was scattered all over the dock. Elise tiptoed quietly down the ramp to help. A mop was floating in the water next to the dock, and she fished it up. Henrik had a strange expression on his ash colored face, and he was sweating like crazy. Peter was pretty nervous, too—even more nervous than the time they had let the pigeons go at the Marienlyst Hotel. He was thinking about Henrik the Jew again.

Then Peter looked back up at his grandfather, searching for some kind of encouragement. Uncle Morten was behind him, wiping his hands on a rag. He winked at his nephew.

“So you will report anything you see,” said the officer to the men, still standing in the same spot. “Immediately.” It was not a question.

“We’ll keep our eyes open. You’ll be the first to hear,” said Uncle Morten. He didn’t sound too convincing. “If criminals are sneaking around, as you say, we have no need for them.”

Peter couldn’t believe his ears, but he didn’t say anything. In a moment the German swiveled on his toe and walked quickly up the ramp.

“He’s gone,” said Uncle Morten, after they had all watched the gray uniform disappear. That’s when Peter and Elise looked over at Henrik, who was making a funny little whimper. His knees folded under him, and he fainted quietly onto the dock.

Uncle Morten vaulted out of the boat past Grandfather; everyone crowded around Henrik and tried to lay him on his back.

“Henrik!” yelled Peter. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t yell at him,” snapped Elise. “He fainted and he can’t hear you anyway.”

Henrik wasn’t answering right away, but it was only a few moments before his eyes fluttered open again. Uncle Morten wadded a jacket and placed it under his head, and Grandfather covered him with another coat he had found in the boat.

“My arm. My arm. My arm!” Tears were streaming down his face.

Uncle Morten touched Henrik’s arm where there was a lump, and the boy yelped. Uncle Morten looked up. “It’s probably broken,” he said. “But I can’t believe you didn’t say anything until now. Why not?”

Henrik tried to catch his breath. “I couldn’t say anything while he was here,” he choked. “I just couldn’t.”

“Well, let’s get you up to a doctor,” said Grandfather. “This is going to take some looking after. Can you walk?”

He could—barely—and Uncle Morten put his arm around the boy’s waist as he guided him down the street to the neighborhood clinic on Star Street. But the arm, Henrik’s left arm, did turn out to be broken.

“It’s not so bad that it won’t heal just fine,” said Dr. Rasmussen, closing up his bag. He had just finished putting a small cast on Henrik’s forearm. Henrik said the pain was still terrific, but with his parents around he was grinning anyway from where he sat on the clean hospital bed. He smiled at the doctor, Uncle Morten, Grandfather, Elise, and Peter. He had a small audience in the clinic room, and Henrik was performing.

“So, Doctor, will I be able to play the piano after my arm heals?” Henrik asked.

“No, Mr. Melchior,” replied the doctor, straight faced. “Not unless you start taking lessons.”

“Aw, you didn’t fall for it,” said Henrik.

“I’ve heard that one before,” the doctor replied, looking down at his clipboard. He was smiling, though. “Take very good care of this arm for a month or so. No tumbling or arm wrestling; keep the activity down. And come back in six weeks.”

“Thanks so much, Doctor,” said Mrs. Melchior.

Then Henrik suddenly frowned. “This means I won’t be able to go out with Peter and his uncle tomorrow on the boat, right?”

Henrik’s dad had already heard about the trip. Now he looked even more serious than he usually did, and his black, bushy eyebrows were bunched close down over his eyes. He was rather short and stubby looking, not at all athletic like his son. And the decision about the fishing trip was already made for him now. “I think you know the answer to that, son,” he said. “I’m sorry. You heard the doctor.”