I Can't Begin to Tell You (2 page)

Remember
that.

Even so, she found herself wanting to rap people on the chest and to say: ‘Do you understand Britain has gone it alone?’

Here in this wood, where Danish sphagnum moss lapped around her shoes and the smell of water pricked in her nostrils, Kay would have given much for the sight of the damp ox-eyed daisies and rose-bay willow herb growing outside her mother’s cottage … to be sitting with friends in a dark, smoky Gaumount cinema … to be rattling along in a red London bus, to be dancing to the band in the Savoy in someone’s arms – preferably Bror’s but those of any warm, handsome male would do for that moment. It would mean being part of a nation who knew where they were.
Fighting Herr Schicklgruber
.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Go home.

A couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, Anton Eberstern, Bror’s first cousin, had rung Kay at Rosenlund to invite her to lunch at one of København’s most talked-about restaurants.

She went.

The restaurant was the sort of professional enterprise in whose cosmopolitan gloss was embedded the famous Danish
hygge
– a cultivated cosiness designed to shut out the world’s troubles.
Hygge
, Kay reckoned, was the Danish riposte to the wear and tear of cruel winters, a fragmented territory and an often hostile sea.

Bror was going off on a ten-day fishing trip on Jutland with his cousins, the Federspiels, but he dispatched Kay to act as his eyes and ears. ‘Anton must be up to something,’ he said with the curious expression that she could never get to the bottom of. They occasionally discussed the antipathy between Bror and Anton – or, at least, Kay tried to discuss it, but she never got very far since Bror’s response tended to be anything but rational. ‘I don’t think he’s ever got over the fact that I have Rosenlund,’ he once admitted. ‘And he’s rotten to women.’ Kay had laughed and informed Bror that he had just made Anton seem twice as attractive. A womanizer with a slight grudge. ‘Every woman in Denmark will make it her mission to heal him.’

The train had been crowded, as was usual these days, and the talk in the carriage had been of the watered-down milk which had become the norm and the difficulty of obtaining petrol. In København itself there were German soldiers in the streets, older and shabbier than might have been expected from the reputedly smart-as-paint
Wehrmacht
.

When
Anton got up to greet her in the restaurant, she was startled by his neat blond moustache. ‘That’s new.’

‘Admiring my beauty. Don’t frown, darling. It’s my tribute to Herr Hitler.’ He smiled but not with huge amusement. ‘Camouflage in war is sensible.’

She peered at Anton.

The cousins may have borne a family resemblance – the jawline, the blondness, a certain facial expression. That was deceptive. Temperamentally, they were chalk and cheese.

Anton was shorter and of slighter build than Bror. When not in his uniform, he displayed a fondness for cashmere coats, Savile Row tailoring and custom-made shoes. He loved political gossip and diplomatic intrigue and was well informed. He made the best of lunch companions.

In comparison to Rosenlund, Anton’s house and land were modest – there being only a small acreage with which to enjoy a mystical relationship. If he minded – as Bror suggested – he never gave the slightest indication to Kay. A bachelor, he concentrated on love affairs, good wine, cigars and the flowers which he grew in his famed hothouses. To receive one of Anton’s bouquets was said to be a signal for seduction. Life was too serious to be serious, he told Kay. She believed him until she grew wiser and more sceptical. Anton was a colonel in Danish military intelligence and, presumably, somewhere in the mix of charm and conviviality was a professional.

Anton ordered for them both.

Over the fish soup, he regarded Kay with his customary combination of overt lust and admiration. As the bride, Kay had found Anton’s behaviour unsettling. These days, she found his lightness of touch attractive. Once or twice she had asked herself if his obvious admiration pandered to her vanity. Just a little? More than a little?

Anton raised a glass of Chablis. ‘The hat is good, Kay. Blue on blonde hair is magnetic. Did you buy it on one of your little trips to Paris?’

The
hat was royal blue with a black feather and wispy netting and nestled on Kay’s piled-up hair. The effect was particularly good with the Eberstern pearls round her neck, something she knew perfectly well when she dressed for this meeting.

‘Yes,’ she said and sighed, remembering wet streets, perfume, garlic soup, making love with Bror in a hotel room. ‘I miss Paris.’

‘Did you wear it to seduce me?’

‘Oh, the masculine mind.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t? Anything can happen after lunch, you know.’ He held her gaze. ‘I love you, Kay, for how quickly you stopped being British and dowdy after you came here.’ There was a tiny pause. ‘How are things at dear old Rosenlund?’ A further pause. ‘And dear old Bror? How’s he taken it all?’

Bror had been angry and unsettled by the German takeover of the country. ‘Think of the numbers, Kay,’ he’d said in response to her frantic question as to why no one had gone out and fought. ‘There are seventy-five million Germans and only four and a half million of us. Who do you expect to win? Who? Tell me …’ He’d grasped her by the shoulders. ‘
Tell me
.’

She’d looked up at him. ‘But not too …’ The words were stillborn.

Geography and politics did not make up the whole story for Bror. There was also a question of kinship. The Ebersterns had German relations and knew Germany well. It was logical, Kay told herself. Inevitable. Bror wasn’t British or American and part of his psyche responded to the Germanic traditions. Over the generations, German wives and husbands had come to live at Rosenlund, leaving echoes in the house and on the land. No wonder Bror’s reaction to the Reich’s presence was complex and, almost certainly, fraught with tensions.

Discussing Bror with Anton was tricky and she avoided it when possible. ‘Making-do, like everyone else. Some of the men are trickling away to work in Germany.’

‘Dear,
oh dear,’ said Anton.

She didn’t mention that they had been forced to cut back on expenditure or, now short-handed, Bror got up earlier, held daily meetings with Arne, his foreman, and worked later to keep it all going.

The waiter topped up the glasses.

‘Do you know what he has been up to?’

She sensed that this was a loaded question and instinct told her to keep her reply neutral. ‘Business trips up here. Out in the fields. Talking to Arne. The usual.’

It wasn’t quite true. With a touch of apprehension, she recollected Bror had – unusually – taken to closeting himself in the estate office to make phone calls. Once, she had answered the house telephone to an official-sounding voice asking to speak to her husband. That had been followed by an unexpected trip to København.

Anton chose his moment. ‘Have you heard about the Declaration of Good Will?’

Something clicked. This lunch had been plotted out – a manoeuvre. More likely than not, she was being used to get at Bror for some purpose.

Anton continued: ‘It’s been drawn up by the Agricultural Ministry to keep the Germans quiet. Landowners have been asked to sign it. Has Bror mentioned it?’

The information came as a shock – and she was forced to take a moment before asking: ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Anton took on board her reaction. ‘Have you heard about it?’

‘I haven’t, no.’ She ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass and it gave off a tiny shriek. ‘But if I had … ?’

He shrugged. ‘If you sign a document such as the Declaration you are on the record. The Nazis are brilliant at records. I thought you should know.’

‘Anton … ?’ He was making her uneasy. ‘Why should I know this?’

‘Ask Bror.’

‘I
will.’ Kay hoped her smile would mask her sudden terror that Bror had done something stupid. ‘And where do
you
stand?’

She expected … well, what? A riff on the virtues of keeping one’s head down? The impossibility of Denmark doing anything but what it was doing. Perhaps even admiration and support for the Reich? It was what many Danes believed.

His gaze shifted around the room and then focused hard on her face. ‘Kay, the situation in Denmark is dismal but there are alternatives.’

She could not have been more surprised. ‘Meaning?’

‘This is for your ears only.’ He waited for the implications to fall into place. ‘Understood?’

An astonished Kay nodded. Anton poured out the last of the wine with his usual dispatch.

‘Danes can’t fight in the conventional way,’ he said. ‘But there are growing numbers of those opposed to the Nazis hiding up in Sweden and England. Some of them who’ve managed to reach London are being trained in undercover work. Intelligence-gathering, sabotage, mustering underground armies.’

It was as if an earthquake had shaken the restaurant and Kay was wandering, dazed, through the rubble. ‘But isn’t the Danish army working for the Nazis? Aren’t you?’

‘I’m working alongside …’ Anton dropped his searchlight scrutiny. ‘Everyone has to be very, very careful. They are not kind to what they call enemy terrorists.’

Kay dredged her memory. Not long ago, a story had done the rounds about a British-trained parachutist jumping out of a plane over Jutland and his parachute failing to open. His smashed body had been discovered by the authorities and the reprisals, once they had rounded up anyone they thought might have been involved, were very bad.

‘So, in England … ?’ she murmured.

‘You miss it?’ Anton must have caught her confusion and nostalgia.

‘Yes.
When the war began, I was horrified, of course. But since the invasion of Denmark I feel differently.’ She tucked a strand of hair back into her chignon. ‘Not surprising, is it?’

He was sympathetic, almost tender. ‘It makes you realize what it means to you?’

‘Yes. Big events do.’

Anton lowered his voice. ‘Denmark is not high on the Allies’ agenda. Even so, the British, including these people I was talking about, will give some support if we can get organized here. Unfortunately, this means they will interfere in ways we don’t necessarily like but …’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped.’

Her bewilderment more or less under control, Kay strove to understand the implications. ‘Surely, if there’s trouble in Denmark, it will tie up the German troops here even though they are needed elsewhere.’

It was a small triumph of strategic thinking.

‘So …’ Anton gave one of his smiles. ‘You do keep up.’

‘Anton, look at me.’ He obeyed immediately. ‘You know I could betray you.’

The handsome features darkened. ‘But you won’t, Kay. Because you’re British. Because you’re no fascist.’ Again, the tender note sounded. ‘Because your heart beats to an English drum.’

She flinched.

Two tables away a couple blew kisses at each other. Across the room a man in a loud tweed suit was eating a solitary meal.

‘These people you talk about in England … ?’

He got her gist. ‘Who are they? A curious bunch. Bandits operating in the shadows. From what we can gather, and we are not supposed to know about it, there’s an outfit based in London which trains men – and women – for undercover operations and infiltrates them into occupied countries. It has Prime Minister Churchill’s backing … being a bit of a boy scout himself, he’s very keen on it. We’ve seen it referred to in one report as the “SOE”.’ He spread his hands as if to say:
God
knows what that stands for
. ‘But intelligence chatter has picked up talk about “The Firm”. Its existence is top secret.’

‘How did you make contact?’

‘Darling Kay, the first rule is to never ask questions.’

‘But you’re taking a risk telling me. A big one.’

‘Calculated, Kay.’

She stirred in her seat. Fingered the pearls at her neck. She had the oddest notion that Anton had unearthed an element in her of which she had not been aware.

‘All sorts of things are needed. For instance, if we are going to work with the British we need safe houses for agents to hide up in. I’ve already organized one or two in Køge.’ He stared at her and she felt, suddenly, older, more experienced, more laden with knowledge than she had ever imagined. ‘You get the picture?’

She glanced up at the ceiling of the restaurant, its decorative plaster work reminding her of whipped cream. God only knew how it would survive if København was bombed like London.

Sense prevailed.

‘If you’re asking me, I can’t,’ she said. ‘The children. Bror.’

‘Tanne is twenty-four. Nils is twenty-two. Hardly children. And Bror …’ Anton dismissed him with a gesture.

Bror had done something. But what?

Kay collected her wits. ‘No,’ she said.

Anton allowed a long moment to elapse into which she read disappointment, a slight contempt.

‘I understand …’

It was clear that he didn’t.

Anton snapped his fingers at the waiter, asked Kay if she wanted anything and ordered a double brandy for himself, then launched into a description of the
fester-kinder
party recently held by his neighbours … the buffet, the wines, the conversations, the nightmare of transport without petrol. He was at his most brilliantly diverting and it meant nothing.

‘I must go,’ she said at last. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ His lids dropped over his eyes. ‘There is one thing … Some pamphlets need delivering to Lippiman’s bakery in Køge.’

‘That’s simple,’ she said and held out a hand. ‘Give them to me.’

He raised his eyes. ‘I don’t think you understand, darling.’

Then she did.

‘The previous courier was caught,’ continued Anton. ‘I need someone to pick up from the contact at the station and deliver them. Lippiman does the rest.’

The hidden parallel world in which Anton dealt was beginning to piece together. ‘Mr Lippiman!’ She glanced down at her left hand where the ring with the Eberstern diamonds caught the light. ‘How surprising people are. I thought I knew him.’

‘You thought you knew me.’

Kay sat very still. ‘This is really you, Anton. I had no idea.’ Something was shifting in her mind … but what? ‘Why did I have no idea?’

‘No one ever knows anyone.’

‘Anton, what is Bror up to?’

He sat back in his chair. Easy and amused. Malicious. ‘Ask him.’

There was a silence.

‘I
really
must go.’

‘Of course.’ He reached over and captured one of Kay’s hands. ‘Would you do this? Just this once? The courier will wait on the platform for the afternoon train with a basket. It’s just a matter of you taking the basket and dropping it in at the bakery on the way back.’

What had Anton done to her? She felt newly connected, but also disorientated – as if she had been pushed out of the shadow into blinding sun.