by Susan Wiggs
And then there was Farfar’s egg. Magnus had always considered it a silly ornament, the orb of gold and jewels with the carved gold and alabaster angel inside, but he knew it was valuable because of the letter from the very rich man from Russia.
With a feeling of terror and sadness pressing on his chest, he had pushed away the smoldering skeleton of the Christmas tree and folded back the ruined carpet. He’d retrieved the egg, along with the special letter from the Russian man, and two family photographs that were important to him.
No, three. There was a recent “family portrait” featuring Magnus, his parents and Farfar, along with Uncle Sweet and Eva. Magnus didn’t understand the Germans’ special hatred for Jewish people. They were just people, after all. As he thought about it, Magnus realized he had never understood hatred at all...until that night. Since then, he had learned what it felt like, a furnace inside him that burned so hot he knew he would never freeze to death, not so long as there were Germans to fight.
The ice in his bones strengthened him as the Klokkespil chimed the hour of four. It was the signal he’d been told to expect. Twilight came early in the winter, and it would be dark soon. He became hyperaware of his surroundings, as if experiencing heightened sensations. He could hear the hiss of his skate blades over the surface of the ice, and the subtle, almost undetectable sound of the water flowing beneath. He could hear the burble of laughter from the schoolchildren circling the pond. Many of the children were his age, yet he felt older than rock itself, artificially aged by grief and fear and anger.
In addition to taking his home and his family from him, the soldiers had stolen the remainder of his childhood. He could never be a boy again, could never let loose with carefree laughter, never spin around on the ice until he fell down dizzy, just for the sheer silliness of it. In place of the youngster he’d once been was an angry, cynical young man made dangerous by the fact that he had nothing more to lose. In destroying an innocent boy, the Germans had unwittingly created their own worst enemy.
A few other boys arrived with some hockey sticks and a puck, and Magnus joined in. To the casual observer, he was just some kid ice-skating with his friends—though they were fake friends, fellows he barely knew.
Slapping a puck back and forth between them, the boys reconnoitered the ordnance shed. It was not heavily guarded because it was supposed to be not only impenetrable but a secret. The Germans were too cocky to fear what the Danes were capable of. The thick heavy doors, banded by iron, faced the street, and the stone block walls surrounded the rest.
The only other way in was a drainage pipe the size of a big tree trunk from the base of the building extending out to the frozen river that fed the pond. That was where Magnus’s small stature came in. The boys clustered near the drainage pipe, fighting for the puck, shouting and laughing.
A pair of soldiers walked to the snow-crested riverbank. “Shoo,” they said. “Go on with you now. Go back to the pond.”
The boys fell silent, then took up their sticks and puck and headed for the main part of the lake. The soldiers went back to their pacing in front of the building. Within minutes, they were drawn to the heat emanating from a vendor’s cart on the street nearby. It had been set up by an enterprising Danish woman selling nuts roasted in honey. The irresistible aroma was surpassed only by the taste of the warm hazelnuts.
No one had told Magnus the woman worked for the Resistance. He just knew.
As the soldiers went to warm themselves around the roasting cart and to sample the hazelnuts, a couple of the boys gave Magnus a boost so he could crawl into the pipe. It was a tight squeeze, but he was able to fit through the big iron tube. Inching his way through the pipe seemed to take forever. It was frightening, that tight, lifeless space, but he persevered, knowing he had to crawl only a short distance. In the complete darkness, he couldn’t see a thing, but eventually he felt his way to an iron grate.
His hands shook as he pushed at the corroded metal, eventually lifting the grate. Even through his mittens, the cold iron bit at his hands, and his fingers stiffened like icicles. Trying to hold steady, he shoved the bundled sticks of dynamite through to the floor of the building. Then, with the wiry fuse in hand, he backed down the pipe. The space felt impossibly cramped, its rough surface scraping at his jacket and trousers. He moved as fast as he could, wondering how long the guards would linger at the woman’s cart. He needed them to stay away long enough for him to light the fuse and escape unnoticed. The other boys would create a distraction; he had to believe that.
Moving backward and blind, he had no idea who might see his skates emerge from the opening of the pipe, or what could be waiting for him. But here was the trouble for the Germans—Magnus didn’t care. If they arrested him, if they threw him in prison or shipped him to one of their death camps, so be it.
The Teacher had spoken to him about this, told him he needed to find a purpose. A reason to live. He hadn’t found that yet, but at least he knew what he would die for.
After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled himself free and dropped down onto the ice, sweating despite the cold. He looked around, his legs trembling, skates slipping on the slick surface. There was no one in sight. It was nearly full dark now. Most of the skaters had left the lake, hurrying home before the curfew horns sounded. Only the other boys remained, creating a phony ruckus in the middle of the lake to distract the guards.
This was the critical moment. He used his teeth to pluck off one mitten, and pulled out the box of red-headed matches. His hands were steady as he struck a match.
The first match flared, then flamed out as a cold wind swept through. He hunched over and tried again. The second and third attempts failed. He started to feel nervous, perhaps like the Little Match Girl in a story he always despised by Hans Christian Andersen. Suppose all the matches failed?
He tried again, using his body to shield the flame from the wind. He held the bright flame to the fuse, but this, too, went out. More matches, more attempts. Finally, when he was nearly out of matches, the cord caught and sizzled, flaring up. He shielded the light with his body, praying it wouldn’t be seen. A terrible heat licked at his neck. His muffler had been set aflame. He jumped back and yanked off the burning wool, dropping the scarf to the ground. The pain was terrific, but he didn’t make a sound other than a sharp hiss. The fuse burned steadily, the sulfurous spark disappearing into the drain pipe.
Magnus stuffed away the matches and put his mitten back on. Then he skated away into the darkness, moving as fast as he dared. Across the lake, the other boys dispersed, melting into the twilight. Magnus knew he had only seconds to find safety. His shoulder slammed into a low hanging branch on the opposite bank of the river. He scrambled up the steep, snowy incline, ripping his skates off and then running to the skating house in his sock feet. In the shelter of the skating house, he stopped, sank down on a bench. His quick panting breath made frozen clouds in the night air. Peering through the darkness, he focused on the distant shadowy bulk of the building across the river.
Nothing happened. His heart sank. After all that, the attempt had failed.
The city was eerily quiet now that curfew was being observed. Magnus felt a cold chill of disappointment. Nothing. After all the planning, all the risk, the operation had been a waste of time. Slowly he shouldered his rucksack and leaned down to pull on the worn-out gum boots he’d had on the night of the fire.
He turned away. The trudge to shelter would be a long one.
Then he heard...something. A deep, dull rumble of thunder, more of a feeling in his gut than an actual sound. He froze, holding himself perfectly motionless, watching. The building still lay in darkness. Then another rumble came from somewhere, and he saw a flash under the eaves of the clay-tiled roof.
The flash expanded into a crashing orange cloud, and the building’s tile roof blew straight up into the air. The noise was so loud, his eardrums hurt. The brilliant explosion sucked the very air from his lungs. Debris flew everywhere. There was a sound
like close thunder, rocks raining down, brick and stone and tile crashing through the river ice.
It was beautiful to see, prettier than the fireworks let off on the Prince’s birthday, more magical than any celebration. The air raid sirens began to shriek.
The noise covered the sound of Magnus’s laughter. He flung out his arms and laughed for the first time since the soldiers had stolen his life away. He laughed until the tears streamed from his eyes.
“Yes,” he shouted, though he did not know what he was saying yes to. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Magnus had done what the Teacher had advised him to do. He had found his purpose.
* * *
After Magnus blew up the ordnance shed, the Underground gave him more and more things to do. His confidence grew as he made the most of his small stature, sneaking through impossibly close spaces to commit whatever mayhem was thought to be most disruptive to the occupying force. Trains were derailed, supply barges sunk, warehouses torched.
He wondered why finding his purpose did not diminish his anger and grief. Like the livid burn marks on his neck from the ordnance incident, the feelings became a part of him, never to fade. Still, sabotage was something to do, he supposed.
The Teacher said it wasn’t enough to find a purpose. A man also needed a reason to live. The Teacher didn’t explain how to find this, however.
In general Magnus was kept in the dark about operations, merely given a task like a school assignment, which he was expected to carry out without question.
One spring day the Teacher asked him to come to their customary meeting spot, a simple wood frame house atop an embankment on the east side of the city. Magnus thought it might be the man’s home, an unlovely place that lacked running water and was cluttered with camping supplies. Blankets were piled on the sagging corner bed, and bottles lined the windowsills and kitchen bench. There were books everywhere, in stacks and atop the rickety table, books on every possible subject in Danish, German and English. Magnus imagined that in another life, in better circumstances, the Teacher was a man of learning.
“You have shown how good you are at destroying things,” he said now. “Let’s see if you are equally good at rescuing.” The reek of Akvavit emanated hotly from his breath as the words slurred together.
“I like the sound of that,” Magnus said.
“The organization has sprung a leak,” the Teacher explained.
“They’re onto us, you mean.”
“Yes. But we’re onto them, too. They’re going to make an arrest today. The target is a couple who’ve been with the Resistance from its inception, Mr. and Mrs. Winther. Their home is on Gyldne Prins Park.”
It was a gentrified area of town, not far from where Magnus’s family had once lived.
“Mr. Winther works at Bispebjerg Hospital,” the Teacher continued. “His wife is a volunteer there. The hospital does a lot of charity work.”
Now Magnus understood. “Charity work” was code for underground work. Magnus was not supposed to know this, but in fact the hospital’s ambulance system and morgue were involved. A patient would be pronounced dead and sent to the morgue for processing. There, the “deceased” would leap up and don street clothes, and quickly disappear. Records furnished to the Germans listed him as having died of a contagious disease, like tuberculosis, something to scare people away from looking too closely at the closed corpse bag. It went without saying that a number of these “fatalities” were Jews and wanted men. Others were spirited away in ambulances to the fishing villages of Zealand to be ferried to Sweden.
“They have one child, a daughter, Annelise.”
The words chilled his blood. He remembered that little Eva, whom he hadn’t seen in more than three years, used to play with the Winther girl. In a flash, he relived the night his parents had been taken. Only, unlike Magnus, she might not escape. She might be swept up into the Germans’ net and taken God-knew-where.
“She’s very young, perhaps ten years of age.” The Teacher took a drink from his chipped stoneware mug. “God damn. This is wearying. Perhaps—”
The Teacher’s telephone rang, startling them both. It was like a big black beetle, crouched on a cluttered desk, emitting a shrill alarm. He scrambled to answer it. “Yes?” He coughed. “Today? But I thought... Never mind. I’ll see to it.”
He slammed down the phone. “It’s today. The arrest is to take place today, in broad daylight. Fucking Nazis. Let’s go, boy.” He muttered the street address. “Do you know it?”
“Yes, sir.” It seemed forever ago, but Magnus used to play in the park near there. Perhaps he’d even seen the Winther family out walking in the sunshine or hurrying home from an engagement.
“We’ve got to make haste.” The Teacher grabbed a battered saddlebag that fit on the back of his motorbike. Then he ripped open the front door.
There was a popping sound, like that of a rock thrown on a bonfire. The moment Magnus heard it, he knew.
The Teacher didn’t stagger dramatically like a guy in the movies. He was slammed back as though smacked by a giant hand. A red dot marked his forehead. The back of his skull disintegrated. Pieces of bloody matter spattered everywhere.
Magnus could feel the wet heat of blood on his face. He didn’t think. He didn’t look at the mess. Since losing his family, he had turned himself into a survivor, and he acted on instinct now, like a scared wild animal. He raced out the back door and half ran, half tumbled down the bank behind the house and ran along a bargemen’s path by the creek. He paused by the creek only long enough to scrub the blood from his face with the brackish water. He tried to rid his mind of the image of the Teacher, his head blown to kingdom come. There was blood on his clothes, too, and he did his best to rub it out, praying it wouldn’t attract attention.
His mind started working again after he’d run perhaps a kilometer. He thought about what the Teacher had said about Dr. and Mrs. Winther. The Teacher was dead now, but he would have wanted Magnus to save them.
There was no time to grieve. Magnus had no idea who the Teacher was, anyway. Just a man who loved books and hated the Nazis.
Magnus started running again. He knew where the Winther family lived. Maybe he would get there in time to warn them. Pain bit into his side as he pushed himself faster and faster. He took a shortcut across Gyldne Prins Park. In the distance he could see children and their mothers playing on the swings. A pretty lady and a yellow-haired little girl got off the swings and left the park through the wrought iron gates, crossing the boulevard while holding hands. They stopped to speak to a man. A pedestrian. Perhaps he was part of the Underground.
A contingent of brownshirts marched down the street, and the pedestrian hurried away. There were canvas-covered trucks parked in the roadway. A uniformed man approached the woman in the pink fluttery dress, and a second later, she was surrounded. Even from a distance, Magnus could see the tension and terror in the woman’s posture. To be accosted in one’s own neighborhood added to the shock and violation; Magnus knew this. The little girl clung to her mother with a desperation Magnus felt in his gut. That same desperation had gripped him the night Farfar had been taken and later, his own parents.
The urge to rush into the situation was as powerful now as it had been that night, but just like that night, he resisted. An even stronger instinct ruled—self-preservation. He would be of no use at all to Mrs. Winther if he exposed himself without a plan.
He was trying to decide on a plan when the little girl did something surprising. She wrenched herself away from the knot of soldiers, and she ran. One of the brownshirts took a halfhearted swipe at her, but she darted away with the quickness of one familiar with the neighborhood.
Magnus felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. There was something about the little girl, all alone, running for her life, that made him strong with both fury and determination.
He kept himself out of sight and skirted the edge of the park, walking quickly but trying to be discreet. One thing he’d discovered early on wa
s that running merely drew attention to a person.
The girl rounded a corner, and he feared he might lose track of her. He spied a bike leaning against a fence, and he stole it without a blink of guilt, not even breaking stride as he hopped on and rode away. After that, it was a matter of moments before he caught up with the panicked girl.
The breathless sobs that emanated from her wrenched his heart, because, despite her terror and grief, she never stopped running. Survival was a powerful driving force, stronger than hatred and love combined. With each breath, she voiced her fear: “Help. Please, help. Please.”
He called out to her to stop, saying he was there to help, but she either didn’t hear him or was ignoring him in her panic. In one flowing motion, Magnus ditched the bike and made a grab for her. She fought like a feral cat, exuding a fierce strength that was out of proportion with her size. She scratched and kicked and bit until he was forced to squeeze her in a tight embrace while saying into her ear, “Easy, easy, little one,” trying to sound soothing, the way Farfar used to soothe the nervous patient.
The fight went out of her with the suddenness of a balloon losing air. She felt oddly fragile in his arms, her sturdy strength melting into surrender.
“You’re the Winther girl,” he said. “Annelise, right?”
She pulled back and stared at him with haunted eyes. He saw her studying the ugly burn scars and the spray of drying blood on his clothes. They were the color of his mother’s best china. I’m sorry, he conveyed silently. I’m sorry for what you’re about to go through.
“You’ll have to trust me,” he said. “It’s scary, I know. I’m here to help you.”