A Way Through the Sea (12 page)

“No matter,” smiled Mr. Melchior between mouthfuls of cabbage. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Wake Up Call

10

After dinner, Henrik and Peter were in charge of the dishes. Of course, Henrik was drying because of his cast.

“So forget the bird race,” said Peter. “We can do other stuff... keep racing them around town. It was a stupid idea anyway. We knew your parents didn’t want you to get mixed up with my uncle.”

“Yeah,” Henrik said as he polished a plate extra hard. “Besides, it has been getting pretty scary outside lately.”

Both of them thought about the times in the past weeks when they had been close enough to the German soldiers to see reflections in their boots. And while they didn’t know too much about the war, they knew that there were German soldiers everywhere, not to mention German trucks, German ships, and German planes. Lately, Peter and Henrik were even scared to send Morse code messages between their windows.

“Hey, since you’re here tonight, we don’t even have to send a message,” said Henrik as they finished up the dishes and moved into the next room. Mrs. Melchior had pulled out a pile of fresh bed sheets, and they rolled them out on the floor next to Henrik’s bed.

“That’s another thing,” said Peter, pulling a corner of the blanket. “I’m not sure if we should be doing that signal light thing anymore. You know what happened to old Mrs. Bohr last week.”

Two nights ago, old Mrs. Bohr down the street had her living room window shot out just because she had forgotten to pull the blackout shade in time. A German soldier had simply aimed at the light. Of course, Mrs. Bohr didn’t remember much of anything these days, Peter’s mom said. She said the shot had gone through the window, through the living room wall, and all the way through to the next room. Just missed a photo of old Mr. Bohr, who had been dead for twenty some years. Peter didn’t know all the neighbors on their busy street, but when things like this happened, everybody noticed and did what they could.

Henrik didn’t say anything for a minute. He was slipping a pillowcase on a pillow, studying it hard. Then he looked up. “I thought about that, too,” he said. “Like I said, it’s a good thing you’re here tonight. So we don’t have to.” Then he smiled. “Maybe we should get little radios, like the Resistance guys.”

Just then Henrik’s mother called in from the hallway. “And don’t forget what happened to poor old Mrs. Bohr,” she said.

“Yes, Mother,” Henrik called back. “I mean, no, we won’t even think about touching the shades.”

With school the next day, the boys had to turn out their lights around nine. Peter had all his books with him, his backpack, a clean shirt, and some underwear. He was still amazed his parents let him spend the night on a Thursday.

After lights were out, the blackout shades made the Melchior living room seem darker than the inside of an icebox at midnight. Henrik and Peter both lay still, neither saying a word for a long time. Peter was in Henrik’s bed, and Henrik was down on the floor, comfortable on a thick oval rug.

“Peter, are you awake?”

“What else?” Peter whispered back. Henrik’s parents had gone to bed early, too.

“Are you upset that my dad won’t let us race the pigeons anymore?”

“He didn’t say that exactly,” Peter corrected him. “He just didn’t want you getting mixed up with my uncle anymore, or getting into too much trouble.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Peter had to think about that one for a minute. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I’ve thought about it lately, and, well, maybe your dad is right.”

Henrik didn’t say anything for a long time. Peter figured his friend was probably thinking about his father, and about being Jewish. Mr. Melchior seemed to worry too much. On the other hand, there
was
a lot to be worried about.

After a while, Henrik broke the silence. “I don’t know, Peter. I can’t figure it out. How long do you think this stuff is going to go on?” He was talking about the war, not about pigeons or parents. “I mean, we were nine when it started, weren’t we?”

“Eight, I think,” said Peter. “Yeah, eight, because it was the first year after you moved here that the Germans came.”

“So, do you think my dad’s right, though? About Danish Jews having to be so careful?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Peter whispered. “I’m only eleven, too. And just barely. But my dad says the Germans are starting to lose lots of battles now, and lots of people hope the Americans or the English will come chase them out pretty soon.”

“But about the Jews,” Henrik whispered.

“All I know is that if anybody ever comes looking for you, you can hide under my bed,” Peter said, giving up on the subject.
How am I supposed to know?

“Not funny.” Henrik struggled to stay awake, but his voice was getting farther away, sleepier.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Peter said, sorry that he tried to make a joke when Henrik sounded so serious. He wanted to talk more, but in the darkness, he couldn’t think of what else to say.
Maybe tomorrow,
he thought,
when we’re both more awake.
“Henrik, are you awake?”

This time there was no answer.

As Peter drifted off, he wrestled with his own questions, the same way he had for the past few nights. It seemed like the only time he could really think. But there were too many questions, and they were winning the wrestling match. Danish Jews, or Jewish Danes? Did it matter? Why did the Germans seem to care so much? Never in his life had he heard so much talk about Jews, or about being Jewish, or being in trouble just because you were Jewish. Never, ever—and it was too much for him to figure out at that time of night.

Peter dreamed, and it was something really silly, like soldiers were shooting at his pigeons, and they were flying to Peter to hide. The birds were talking, yelling at him, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying because it was a different language.

“Peter! Peter!” He woke up in a sweat; someone was shaking him awake. It was Henrik, leaning over the bed, still in his pajamas. The hallway light was on, and Peter could just see his face. His eyes were wide with fright.

“Peter, wake up!” This was no dream, and Henrik in his pajamas was no talking pigeon.

“Huh?” said Peter, still groggy. “What’s going on?” He looked over at Henrik’s alarm clock on the dresser. Five thirty in the morning.

“My dad just woke me up,” said Henrik, his voice shaking a little. “He wants us to get dressed right away and get down to the kitchen.” Before Peter could complain, Henrik was out the door. So Peter pulled a pair of pants over his pajamas and followed as quickly as he could. Something was very wrong. He shivered, not just from the chill.

Stumbling down the hall and into the kitchen, he recognized the grocery storekeepers from down the street, Mr. and Mrs. Lumby, Ole the mailman, and a man named Albeck. They were all gathered around the Melchior dinner table, where Peter had eaten the holiday dinner just hours before. The expressions on their faces said they weren’t having a pleasant cup of morning coffee, though. Especially not at 5:30 a.m.

“I knew it was going to happen,” wheezed Mr. Lumby. His round, pink face seemed even pinker, he was so worked up. “I knew it. We couldn’t keep pretending we live in some kind of fairyland, that it would never happen here. Look what’s already happened to our people in Poland and Austria.”

“Okay, Lumby,” interrupted Ole. He was small and wiry, with a sharp chin and white, bushy eyebrows. But he was quick with a wave and a smile as he came bouncing down the street with his mail sack. Most of the kids liked him. He seemed different this morning, though—intense or nervous, like everyone else at the table. He was waving his hands and pointing as he spoke. “We know what’s happened all over Europe. It doesn’t do any good to throw up our hands and say it can’t happen here. It can and it has. Me, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Now we have only until tonight—twelve, maybe thirteen hours before the Germans begin their roundup. So we have to act, and we have to act now.”

“Well, as soon as I got the phone call from my cousin in Copenhagen, that’s when I called you,” said Mr. Albeck, looking at Henrik’s father, who was also sitting at the table. Then Peter remembered—Mr. Albeck was Henrik’s father’s brother in law. Henrik’s uncle. “I was out on a business call, or I would have known earlier. I just wish one of us would have heard a few hours earlier.”

“I don’t get it,” Henrik put in. He had been standing at the kitchen door with Peter. Neither of the boys really knew what everyone was talking about, but they were starting to get the idea that this was some sort of terrible secret they didn’t want to know.

Everyone in the room turned to look at them, two kids with rumpled clothes and dumb, sleepy expressions on their faces. Mrs. Lumby and Henrik’s mom looked as if they had been crying.

Then Mrs. Melchior looked right at Peter and smiled kindly—the way she had the night before when he was feeling awkward at the dinner table. “Peter, you’re welcome to stay for breakfast,” she said, “but I think it would be best if you returned home very soon. For your safety. Mr. Melchior has just called your father.”

“But, Father, what’s going on?” Henrik asked again.

Mr. Melchior took a deep breath, took off his round glasses and carefully began polishing them. “No school today, Henrik, I’m afraid.” A quick smile flashed across his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. He was warming up for a little speech. “Well, here in Denmark, it used to be that no one has ever cared that we are Jews, any more than we care if you are left handed or blue eyed. The German Nazi soldiers and their leader, Mr. Hitler, on the other hand, have an entirely different opinion, and—"

A soft, quick rap on the front door interrupted Mr. Melchior. Everyone jumped, even Henrik’s mom in the kitchen.

“Who could that be?” Mr. Melchior whispered to his wife. “Ruth, would you—no, I’ll get it.” Henrik’s dad pushed out his chair from the kitchen table while everyone looked at one another as if they were wondering what to do. Maybe hide?

In his red robe and slippers Mr. Melchior looked more like he should have been letting the cat out on a Sunday morning. But before anyone could wonder who was out there, Mr. Andersen’s muffled voice came through the front door.

“It’s Arne Andersen, Mr. Melchior,” said Peter’s dad, almost as if he were whispering.

Mr. Melchior’s stiff back relaxed, and he quickly ran down the stairs to unbolt and open the door. When he came up, Peter’s dad stood for a moment at the entrance to the kitchen—only a moment—taking everyone in at a glance. He said good morning to Peter with his eyes.

“Come in, Arne. You’re a little early, but the coffee is already hot.” Mr. Melchior was getting back some of his humor. “I was just explaining to the boys here what has happened. Have you heard any details?”

Peter’s dad nodded quickly. “I’ve made a couple of calls, and we’ve confirmed that the Germans are planning their roundup of all Danish Jews for tonight and tomorrow morning. It will happen all over the country at the same time, but of course most of the Jews are in Copenhagen, not here in Helsingor. But the Nazis stole a list with the name of nearly every Jewish family in the country, so they know who you are and where you live.”

Mrs. Lumby, the storekeeper’s wife, buried her face in her hands and started to cry again, softly.

Peter’s father continued. “Now people are deciding whether they will hide and wait, or flee immediately.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the room again. No one else said a word.

“My brother Morten, as you know, is a fisherman, and we can use his boat to get you all over to Sweden immediately if that is what you want. I recommend it. There is no need for waiting. It is clear what is happening.”

Mrs. Lumby hadn’t said anything since Henrik and Peter had come into the room, but now she stood up, wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief, and looked at Peter’s father. “What about our homes, and our businesses?” she said.

That kind of talk went on for thirty minutes or so, while Henrik and Peter tried to follow it as best they could. It turned out that the Germans planned to round up all Danish Jews on the second evening of Rosh Hashanah: that night, Friday, September 30. The Germans must have figured out that all the Jews would be at home, having another nice dinner. And they probably all would have if a German official who had heard of Hitler’s plan hadn’t leaked the word the day before to the Danish Jewish leaders. That gave all six or seven thousand Danish Jews less than two days to pack a bag, hide, or get away. Forty eight hours.

“I had no idea my dad knew all about that stuff,” Peter said to Henrik as they returned to Henrik’s room. Peter had to get his things before he left with his father.

Henrik pulled his brown canvas school sack from under his bed and dumped his school books with a crash. “It’s not fair!” he yelled, picking up one of his school books and throwing it in the corner, hard. Peter winced. “Who says we have to just pick up and leave? What happened to the happy and sweet year?”

Peter remembered the words of the Rosh Hashanah apple in honey blessing, too. It was just the night before, but now it seemed like years ago, and he felt like throwing some books around, too. Maybe at a Nazi soldier, if he could find one. But he only stood there with his fists clenched, staring at Henrik stuffing socks and underwear into his school knapsack.

“Peter,” Mr. Andersen called down the hall. “We have to go now.”

Peter wheeled around, startled. “What about the Melchiors?” he asked. “The Germans are coming tonight.”

“They’re all staying at our house today and tonight, until your uncle returns from his fishing trip. He should be back tonight or tomorrow morning first thing, and we’ll have a way over to Sweden for these people.”

Peter looked over at Henrik, who was just standing there by his open sock drawer. It was decided, then.