I Can't Begin to Tell You (18 page)

Sorting out the meat from the pastry on her plate, she made herself eat as much as possible. It wasn’t easy. She chewed away and told herself that she was committed. She had to be. With its violence and retribution, the war threatened to invade Rosenlund’s boundaries. No more pastoral idylls. In the light of events, Bror’s Arcadia would prove to be only a dream, and as fragile.

Collapsed by the stove, the dogs snorted and snuffled in
sleep. Then a vehicle crunched over the gravel. Thor shifted to his feet and Sif raised her head and barked.

‘Are we expecting anyone?’ Bror looked up from his slice of cherry flan.

Else appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir –’

Before she could finish, she was pushed aside and two uniformed Danish policemen entered the dining room.

‘Sergeant Wulf?’ Kay exclaimed, recognizing the older of the two. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘
Fru
Eberstern,
Hr
Eberstern, I apologize.’

‘I think you should.’ Bror had remained seated – an unusual discourtesy which meant he was angry.

Sergeant Wulf tugged at his belt. It was a gesture well known to many in his jurisdiction. He had been in charge of the Køge police station for the last decade and the joke ran that his belt had to be let out a notch each year. By report, Kay knew him to be a kindly man and more or less effectual.

‘This is Constable Juncker from København. He is here to act as liaison between us and our German colleagues.’

Juncker was still youthful enough to be at the gangly stage. His uniform was new and well pressed and, having hitched his career to the Nazi bandwagon, he looked eager to toe the line.

What had she done? What had she done to her family?

There was no time for regret. Nor for panic.

Shut up, Kay
.

Bror was brusque and unwelcoming. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Sir …’ Sergeant Wulf was not a happy man. ‘Forbidden literature has been found in a baker’s van.
Hr
Lippiman’s. Constable Juncker and I are following up leads.
Fru
Eberstern was seen at the bakery this morning.’

This was her fault – for she had brought the war right into their dining room.

Fear. Guilt.

The air crackled with suspicion. But, all of a sudden, she was cool and focussed.

Think
of the details. When, where, how? Get them right
.

‘Gentlemen, some coffee?’

Turning to Kay, Bror asked, ‘Do you know anything about forbidden literature?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘There’s your answer,’ Bror addressed the men. ‘Now go.’

Constable Juncker ignored him. His young, righteous gaze drilled into Kay. ‘You do know the baker?’

‘I do. I’ve used the bakery for many years.’

‘Is it normal for you to do the shopping? Doesn’t your housekeeper buy the bread?’

Kay directed her answer to Sergeant Wulf. ‘We’ve lost staff and I like to help out by doing some of the shopping.’

Sergeant Wulf was clearly reluctant to be involved, but he said, ‘You handed the baker a basket.’

‘Did I?’ She smiled at him. ‘Perhaps I did.’

He scrabbled at his belt again. ‘According to our witnesses you did. Was the basket empty?’

‘I think so. It may have had my scarf in it.’

The details
.
Which scarf? Do not look at Tanne
.

Tanne interjected. ‘What has happened to
Hr
Lippiman?’

Constable Juncker got in first. ‘He’s been arrested and will be taken to København.’

At that, Tanne took Kay completely by surprise, her words cutting through the atmosphere: ‘You’re going to hand over a
Dane
to the Germans? A fellow Dane?’

Tanne spat out the words.

Sergeant Wulf looked like an animal that lacked the guts for the kill.

‘A Dane!’ Tanne repeated, her thoughts scurrying through a moral and patriotic maze. ‘A fellow Dane?’

‘Tanne,
quiet
.’

She had never seen her father so angry.

But she was past caring. ‘Why?’

Constable Juncker said simply, ‘Denmark needs to be healed.’

Tanne was speechless. On hearing this idiotic remark, the fragments of thought which had been swirling around in her head for months cohered and became clear. Herr Hitler was not only mad and bad, but capable of infecting the whole world with his madness and badness. She opened her mouth to object, then caught her mother’s eye.
Don’t
.

She heard Aage’s voice replaying in her head their old university rhetoric.
Democracy
.
Freedom
.
New dawn
. What would Aage be making of the war? Tanne knew the answer. Aage would declare he was sickened to his guts and the country, supine and spineless, was damned. (Once upon a time, she had been a little in love with Aage until she realized that his passionate demagoguery disguised a bully.)

When the men first burst in on their dinner, Tanne reckoned that Constable Juncker might be stupid, an impression she held until she encountered his cunning, calculating gaze and revised her opinion. Juncker was unembarrassed and on the make. Very much on the make. Unabashed, he moved around the room – taking in the fine prints, the gilt pier glass, the Sèvres china on the shelves. At one point, he reached over to touch an
antique Chinese
famille rose
plate. She nearly cried out: ‘Don’t you dare.’ It was such a pretty plate, decorated with delicately painted roses and daisies, and one of her favourites. Then it occurred to her that it was possible he had never been so close to such a valuable object. Who wouldn’t wish to touch a
famille rose
plate?

She heard herself asking, ‘What will happen to
Hr
Lippiman now?’

‘He will be taken to København and handed over to the German authorities.’ Constable Juncker returned to his perusal of the plate.

Her mother’s expression gave nothing away. She fixed her eyes on Sergeant Wulf. ‘I assume you’re holding him at the police station?’ Without drawing breath she continued, ‘I’m sure whatever
Hr
Lippiman has, or has not, done can be dealt with much more competently by you. Do you need to bother your German colleagues with something so insignificant?’

Denmark needs to be healed
. Constable Juncker was checking his reflection in the pier glass which hung between the windows overlooking the garden. The spanking new uniform, the slicked-back hair, the prominent lower lip, the intelligent gleam: what he saw appeared to satisfy him.

‘Sergeant Wulf!’ Her father was icy. ‘You will both leave.
Now
.’

Her mother placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘
Darling
, I am sure Constable Juncker would like a brandy before they go out into the cold. Why don’t we all go into the drawing room?’

Her father’s protests were stilled. Deflected, he gestured to the door and he and Constable Juncker vanished in the direction of the drawing room.

Her mother spoke to Wulf in a low, urgent voice. ‘Sergeant Wulf, Troels Lippiman is a friend of yours. Aren’t I right in thinking you stood as a godparent for his son, and you serve together in the church?’

‘Yes,’
replied Sergeant Wulf, his hand shoring up his belt.

Something else was going on, but Tanne couldn’t work out what.

Her mother turned the full force of her charm on Wulf. ‘Whatever you decide, you must make sure that
Hr
Lippiman is permitted to visit the pastor in the church. He would want to pray. I know you will allow this because you’re his friend. A visit to the church would be important to him. Help him, Sergeant. Now –’ she smiled at him ‘– what about that brandy?’

Sergeant Wulf said: ‘Constable Juncker has already informed København that the baker will be coming in for questioning.’

‘All the more reason for prayer,’ said her mother.

When they had left, Tanne returned to the dining room and her unfinished
delikatesse
.

Because of the war … because of the bloody war, Birgit had been forced to be sparing with the dried cherries embedded in the almond sponge. Still, it meant Tanne could pay special attention to each one and she made herself relish every chew of the bitter-sweet, tough-skinned fruit.

The first-floor passage outside the bedrooms was nearly impossible to negotiate noiselessly but Tanne had a long familiarity with its creaks and groans as she sped along it to the bedroom which she thought of as her parents’.

Yet only the other morning she had caught Else ferrying her father’s things down the corridor to the blue bedroom. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded of her mother, who explained that neither she nor her father had been sleeping well and they both needed a bit of peace and quiet. It was all very confusing, and Tanne had a nagging feeling that she was missing something but could not put her finger on it.

Always, her special love in her parents’ bedroom was the summer lace curtains but they were changed every October for thickly-lined blue damask ones and these had been drawn across the window embrasures. The lamp beside the bed threw
a tactful glow over the room. Earlier, Else had been into the bedroom to turn down the satin coverlet and to lay out her mother’s nightgown. Pearl crêpe de Chine with a touch of lace: it spoke to her of married life, a sexual life and a day-to-day intimacy she had yet to experience.

She plumped down onto the bed and picked up a book. The curtain at the window overlooking the lawn moved a fraction. Leaping to her feet, she pulled it aside. ‘
Mor?
’

Dressed in corduroy trousers and a thick jacket, her mother was directing a torch beam onto the lawns outside.

‘What on earth?’

‘Shush.’

‘But what are you
doing
?’

Her mother snapped off the torch and let the curtain fall back into place. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ She put her hands on Tanne’s shoulders and pressed her down onto the bed. ‘Tanne, darling. I don’t ask you to do much for me but I’m asking you … no, ordering you to go to bed.’

She struggled to understand. ‘Is this to do with Lippiman and the pamphlets?’

Her mother kept up the pressure on her shoulders. ‘Whatever it is to do with,
you
are not involved.’

On another day, at another time, lured by the prospect of a warm bed, Tanne might have been persuaded.

‘Tanne, for once in your life,
obey
me.’

Was her mother turning into a shape-shifter of the old Danish tales? This wasn’t the
Fru
Eberstern who had charmed Sergeant Wulf, or the occasionally dull and overprotective parent. Or the sweet and funny mother she could be. This was a woman Tanne didn’t entirely recognize.

‘
Mor
, what’s happening?’

‘There’s no time to talk now, Tanne. Just go.’

Had she ever heard her mother issue an order with such force? Tanne dug in her heels. ‘Whatever you’re doing, I’m coming with you.’

‘Don’t be
stupid, Tanne.’ Her mother knotted a scarf under her chin.

Then she understood. Or, some of it.

‘
I’m
stupid?’ Tanne twitched the curtain back and peered at the garden. ‘What happens if
you
run into trouble?’

Their eyes collided. ‘Then you can look after your father.’

She spat back: ‘Good thinking. Someone has to.’

Her mother picked up her gloves.

Tanne caught her arm. ‘If you’re going out to help Lippiman, I can be your alibi.’

‘The Germans don’t bother with alibis, Tanne.’

‘Lippiman is my friend, too.’

It worked.

‘God forgive me …’ Her mother was both sharp and fierce. ‘But there’s no time to argue.’ Wrenching open the wardrobe, she thrust a pair of trousers at Tanne. ‘Put these on. Leave your shoes off.’ She fished out a sweater and pulled it down over Tanne’s head, pressing her hands to Tanne’s cheeks. ‘This is secret, Tanne. Completely secret. Understand?’

Mesmerized by this new, strange mother, Tanne agreed.

Rosenlund’s front door was locked and bolted at night and they avoided it, padding instead down the pantry passage to the back door, where they kitted up in thick jackets and boots. The dogs whimpered and whined. Tanne threw them a couple of biscuits to shut them up.

Her mother eased back the bolts. ‘We’re going by bicycle.’

Outside, the cold scoured Tanne’s throat. But she was used to that. Even so, the going was fairly hard and, in places, treacherous and they were both panting by the time they had wheeled their bicycles down the drive.

On reaching the road, they mounted. A large moon aided visibility, but it was hard to keep up a good speed. The snow, which was heaped in unexpected and powdery drifts, was laced with ice, pockets of mist loomed up at them without warning and at times it was too dark to see.

‘Where
are we going?’ Tanne’s whisper was amplified in the brutal stillness.

‘Arne’s.’

‘Why?’

‘Juncker wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. He told us what was going to happen, which means we have an advantage. Arne will take the message.’

‘But Lippiman is in the prison.’

‘Sergeant Wulf will take him to the church.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I told him to.’

Save for the crunch of the wheels over the road surface, silence coated them. Ghostly whiteness and patches of moonlight. Fear prickled down Tanne’s spine. She was aware that she had a shaky hold on the situation and she felt ashamed of her ignorance. What, exactly, was her mother involved in?

How much did her father know?

Avoiding the main street, they detoured around the back ones which, since they were icier, brought their own dangers. But they got there. Unsurprisingly at this late hour, Arne’s cottage was dark. Tanne held the bicycles as her mother knocked softly on the window. Eventually, it was eased open.

A whispered exchange followed.

She heard Arne say, ‘Leave it with me.’

‘Hide him in Ove’s cottage if you have to,’ said her mother.

Arne’s window shut noiselessly.

The way back was colder and harder. Tanne’s energies dwindled, and the exhilaration of the earlier journey vanished. She felt weary to the bone. ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to phone?’ she asked when they were back in Rosenlund and rubbing themselves down.

‘Arne doesn’t have a phone and I don’t trust anyone else. The exchange might listen in.’

‘But
Mor
, even if they did, they wouldn’t say anything.’

Her
mother hung up her damp jacket. Her silence was eloquent.

‘But we
know
them.’ Tanne was bewildered.

‘I warned you not to come. But you did. You must know
nothing
and you must be clever. Lives depend on it.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘Yes.’ Her mother sat down as if her legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer. ‘It took me a little time, but I do know what I’m doing.’ She tackled her boots. ‘I was never going to talk about it, and I didn’t want you involved.’

Both of them wrestled with the laces which had been rendered uncooperative by the damp and cold.

Tanne tugged at hers. To her horror, tears of rage and frustration gathered behind her lids.

‘Lippiman is a good man,’ continued her mother, ‘and I’m not going to let him be taken. Others agree. So we are doing something about it.’

‘And
Far
?’

Her mother shook her head.

‘So you are all … against
Far
and –’

‘Not against
Far
but against
them
.’

A vision of a future came into Tanne’s mind. One where they would be juggling lies, watching their backs (even with friends), and moving words carefully around like counters on the draughts board.

‘What about
Fru
Lippiman?’

Her mother pushed back Tanne’s damp hair. ‘She’ll have to go into hiding, too. The Danish police have instructions to hand over anyone who might be involved. You can see Sergeant Wulf’s position.’

‘Where can they go?’

Her mother shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea and you won’t ask.’

‘And
Far
?’

‘Tanne.’ Kay pulled Tanne to her feet and held her close. Just
like she used to when Tanne was a child. But the words which she hissed into her ear were neither gentle nor loving. ‘You will say nothing. He has enough to deal with.’

She smelled faintly of sweat, a basic human odour that Tanne never normally associated with her elegant, feminine mother – and that small dissonance was almost the strangest thing about the evening.

In bed, Tanne took a long time to warm up and she slept badly. When she woke, she lay and looked around her room. She had imagined that she knew everything there was to know about her parents, about Rosenlund. About Køge.

But she didn’t.

In the afternoon of the following day, Tanne went in search of her mother and discovered her in the storeroom.

She was faced by a familiar sight. Notebook in hand, Kay was shouting across the passage to Birgit, who was in the kitchen beating eggs. Every so often Birgit shouted back.

Rosenlund’s large and airy storeroom was an important place – almost the heart of the house, supervised by her mother and Birgit. Between them, they kept the shelves stacked with canned meats and beans and bottles of fruit and tomatoes. The bottles always gave Tanne particular pleasure – the yellows, ochres, russets and purples creating an autumnal patchwork against the whitewashed walls.

Tanne leaned on the door frame and waited for the shouting to stop. ‘I’ve been in Køge.’

Her mother bent over the record book. ‘Roads bad?’

‘Pretty bad.’ Tanne picked up a jar of tomatoes and held it up to the light. As red as blood? ‘
Mor
, you might like to know there was a raid on the church while a prisoner was there. He escaped.’ She handed the jar over to her mother.