by Susan Wiggs
The garden flourished that summer because Magnus’s mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mama’s hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared. Some days, he could believe life was normal, but then he would wander out and see something—a stupid decree pasted on a bus kiosk, a Jewish business abandoned and boarded up—and he would remember the country had been invaded.
Just after Christmas, Uncle Sweet and Eva disappeared. Magnus woke up one gray, chilly morning to a house that was preternaturally quiet. He tiptoed into the room Eva and Sweet used to occupy. It was bare; the two turned-wood bedsteads and washstand empty, the cupboard where they kept their things empty.
“Where is Eva? Where’s Uncle Sweet?” he asked his mother at breakfast.
She served him a bowl of porridge and stewed apples. “Off to a safer place. They had to get out of the city. The...authorities...” Her voice trailed off. Her mouth was set in a grim line. “These are difficult times.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. I truly don’t. It’s best if we don’t ask.”
Something in her tone raised goose bumps on his skin. He thought about something he’d overheard in the basement. If we don’t know the answer, then it can’t be tortured out of us. “When will we see them again?”
“God only knows.” She held him close, just for a moment, for three heartbeats, perhaps. Then she smoothed his cowlick with her hand and followed it with a kiss, something she did every day. She smelled of floral cologne and of cinnamon from her baking, a comforting scent.
Magnus tried to eat, but he had no appetite. He kept thinking about the promise he’d made to keep Eva safe.
For the next few days, he could hear his parents at night, their worried murmurs a constant hum in the house. Something was happening, something bad.
Then one icy night, when he was out in the back getting wood for the stove, the Germans came. Magnus could hear them inside, their heavy boots stomping through the house, harsh voices questioning. Huddled in terror, he listened to the ransacking of his house—the only home he’d ever known. Instinct kept him hidden; he wondered if they’d found his father’s materials in the basement. He waited, crouched in the dark, until the noise subsided. The grinding gears of a truck filled the air. Then he forced himself to wait some more, and he went in.
The house had been ransacked. Valuables, liquor, food, everything. The Christmas tree lay on its side, its candles setting fire to the drapes and furniture. Coughing, he grabbed the hidden cache of valuables his parents had stowed under a trapdoor beneath the parlor rug, and then he ran.
* * *
His friend Kiki Rasmussen took him in for a time. They shared a room, and sometimes it seemed like fun, staying the night with his best friend, whispering secrets in the dark. But most of the time, Magnus felt choked by the hot lump of tears in his throat, and he would bury his face in a pillow and cry until he felt as if everything had drained out of him. Kiki’s parents went to the Hauptsturmführer and demanded to know where the Johansens had been taken, but no one would tell them. Rumors rushed like a winter storm through the city. People were taken away, families torn apart, homes ruined by the German invaders.
On a bone-cold January day, Magnus walked across the bridge over Sankt Jørgens Sø, a city lake favored by ice skaters. He had no interest in skating, though, as he trudged toward the center of the city. The Nazis had set up barriers made of sawhorses wrapped in barbed wire, blocking off the side streets near the bridge, which channeled traffic down the main boulevard, making it easy for Magnus to blend in. He wore his school uniform and a plain wool coat that was too large for him, a hand-me-down from Kiki’s older brother. His green knitted cap was warm, but scratchy. All of Magnus’s clothing had been ruined in the fire.
Behind him, he pulled his old bladed sled, the one he and his father used to coast down the slopes in Golden Prince Park. On the sled was a heavy box tied up with a bit of string. The chunky ice and partially exposed walkway were sure to dull the blades, but Magnus didn’t care.
His gut burned with a fury so hot, he scarcely felt the cold as he approached the building, once the headquarters of the Royal Dutch Shell company. Now the entire place housed the Geheime Staatspolizei—the Gestapo. The outside walls were painted with gray and green blotches to camouflage it from British air raids, and there were helmeted guards in long overcoats stationed at the U-shaped opening.
Though it was barely three in the afternoon, darkness crowded down from the winter sky, and the windows glowed with lights from within, offering a deceptive warmth. He could see offices and conference rooms through the windows of the building. Some of his friends’ fathers used to work at Shellhus, but it was all different now. These days, the place was overrun with uniformed foreigners on a mission to keep the Danes from disrupting their war effort. It was no secret that they used any means necessary, including torture.
Magnus couldn’t bear to think that his parents might have been brought here, tortured here. He stopped on the sidewalk outside the building and watched a room filled with German soldiers having a meeting, as they did each afternoon since Magnus had started covertly watching the place. They all looked very serious as they shuffled through papers and smoked fancy, machine-rolled cigarettes. On one wall, a cheery fire burned in a fireplace, lending a warm glow to the scene.
Someone bumped him from behind, and he nearly stumbled over the sled. Holding its rope tighter, he turned. “Excuse me,” he said, regarding a street sweeper. The guy scowled at him, his unshaven face grim, his gray canvas coveralls stained. He reeked of aquavit and stale cigarettes. He had a twig broom and long-handled dustpan filled with bits of trash.
“Watch yourself, boy,” he said, whistling through the gaps in his teeth. He jerked his head in the direction of the Shellhus. “Nothing but trouble that way.”
Magnus sidestepped the guy and walked boldly up to one of the guards stationed at the entranceway. “I have a delivery for Colonel Achtzehn.”
The helmeted soldier fixed him with a stony look. “Leave the parcel here. It will have to be inspected.”
An inspection. Magnus hadn’t counted on that. “It’s a gift from my school,” he said, offering a bright-eyed, eager look. “The Jeanne d’Arc School, where he gave a historical presentation on Friday. May I be allowed to deliver it in person?”
“Let’s have a look.” The soldier used a utility knife to cut the string of the box and lifted the flaps. “What the hell is that?”
“Honey from the garden,” Magnus said. “It’s a great delicacy. It should be taken inside immediately before it gets ruined by the cold.”
“I’ll deliver it myself,” the guard said.
This wasn’t working out the way Magnus had planned it. “Yes, but—”
“Off with you, boy. I’m sure Colonel Achtzehn will send his compliments to the headmaster.” He picked up the box and strode into the courtyard.
Magnus stared after him until the other guard made a shooing motion. “Go on with you, then.”
Magnus dragged the sled away, passing the street sweeper, who was swirling his twig broom around the gutter. Rounding the corner to a car park, he ditched the sled. Then he scurried across the road, blending in with shoppers and school kids and office workers dodging traffic. With a quick motion of his hand, he took off the green cap and let it drop behind a bus stop. Retrieving the school knapsack and brown cap he’d left in a doorway, he went on his way. He had an urge to linger and try to catch a glimpse of the meeting in the Shellhus, but he didn’t dare, in case they came looking for him.
Ahead of him was the bridge over the lake. It was nearly dark now, and the crowd was thinning. For t
he first time since he’d approached the Shellhus, he dared to exhale a long sigh of relief. He realized his heart was pounding crazily. He was shaking, and not just from the cold. And for the first time since his parents had been arrested, he felt a small, tight smile—more of a smirk—curve his lips.
When he was just a few steps from the bridge, a large, gloved hand clapped over his mouth and an arm wrapped around him from behind with such force that Magnus lost his breath. He felt himself being dragged behind the wood and barbed wire barrier, into the recess of a doorway. He struggled and tried to scream. His assailant smelled of aquavit and tobacco, and the cold reek of winter.
“Settle down, you,” said a voice that was rough with fury. It was the street sweeper’s voice. “Don’t you make a sound, or I’ll slit your throat, don’t think I won’t. Understand?”
Magnus nodded his head vigorously. He couldn’t make a sound anyway; he was too scared.
“I saw what you did,” the guy said.
“I...I didn’t do anything,” Magnus protested, his voice quivering. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d cried enough tears for his family. Some smelly old street sweeper wasn’t going to make him cry.
“That’s a lie,” the man said. “I watched you, and then I watched what happened after. Saw it all through the window.” He turned Magnus around, digging a thumb into his upper arm. “There was a beehive in that parcel you delivered.”
Despite his fear, Magnus felt a stab of pride. It had been his mother’s best hive, housed in a woven straw skep with an opening at the bottom. Under dark of night, he had sneaked back to the Johansen family home, and had taken it away.
“Do you know what happened when the hive was brought into the office?”
Magnus hung his head. “No.”
“Would you like me to tell you?”
Magnus said nothing, knowing the man was going to tell him, anyway. He wondered what the punishment was for getting caught at such a prank. When it came to the Nazis, you never knew. He’d heard a rumor that in Germany, they shot people just for going to temple.
“I’ll tell you what happened, you foolish little scamp. The bees poured out of the hive in a huge swarm.”
“Sir, that is because the warm air brought the bees out, and they sensed the hive was under attack.”
“People got stung. There was a mad rush for the door. It was insanity for a while.”
Magnus kept his head down, this time to hide a smile of triumph.
But the street sweeper saw. “You think this is funny?”
Magnus snapped his head up and glared at the man. “I think they deserve worse than being stung by bees. I’m just getting started.”
The man gasped, and Magnus realized he’d said too much. But his fear had turned to defiant anger.
“Then you’d better listen to me, and listen closely,” said the street sweeper, grabbing the front of Magnus’s shirt.
He tried to wrench away, but the man held fast. “Why should I listen to you?” Magnus demanded.
“Because I know what I’m doing. If you intend to perform acts of mischief against the Nazis, at least do something that counts.” He pushed Magnus away with a contemptuous shove.
Magnus gaped at him, digesting this advice. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. You think you’re the only one who doesn’t like living under German rule? You’re not alone in wanting to disrupt the Nazi war effort—by any means necessary.”
“You mean...you’re against the Germans, too?” Magnus asked, amazed and relieved.
“Any self-respecting Dane is,” said the man. “But don’t waste your time and effort with child’s play. A beehive. What if you’d been caught today? You’d have been locked up forever, and for what? So a few stupid Gestapo officials could get stung by bees?”
“It’s...like I said. I’m just getting started.”
“Then it’s time you learned how to do some real damage.”
Chapter Eleven
“And that,” Magnus said to Mac and Isabel, “is how I met the Teacher.”
Mac was blown away by the story. He scribbled several questions on the list he was keeping, because he knew there would be many. His literary agent had promised the scope of this project would reach beyond an old man’s memoir. He couldn’t wait to hear more.
“The street sweeper was a teacher?” asked Isabel.
“No, that was his code name. I never knew him by anything else. For security, no one used their actual name. So this man was the one who brought me into the resistance. And although he wasn’t a teacher, I learned much from him. He showed me how to hide in plain sight, how to use hot weapons and cold weapons, how to handle dynamite and set homemade bombs.”
“Hot and cold weapons?” asked Isabel.
“A hot weapon is one that fires or ignites—a gun or incendiary. Cold weapons are made of metal or wire. Not the sort of thing a schoolboy learned in class, but I probably owe that man my life. He taught me to fight back, and he taught me survival tactics.” Magnus took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Later that year, the Nazis gunned him down. I witnessed the incident and barely escaped with my life.”
“You saw a man being murdered?” Isabel whispered the question.
He nodded. “I wish I could tell you it was the only time. Before his death, he gave me shelter and did his best to locate my family. But I never saw my parents again, though I refused to stop looking high and low. My grandfather—my beloved Farfar—was gone, too, and to this day, I’ve never known his fate. Kiki’s family said I could live with them, but I didn’t want to put them in danger, and I knew I would, because I was committed to the resistance effort. I lost my childhood that year. I never felt like a boy again.”
“I’m sorry, Grandfather,” Isabel said. “I wish I could take the terrible memories away from you.”
He patted her hand in a way that made Mac’s heart lurch. “You do, my darling. Every day.”
Mac could tell Magnus was exhausted. The old man’s shoulders slumped a little, and the lively light in his eyes had dimmed. “Tell you what,” Mac said. “How about we take a break here?”
“Yes,” said Magnus. “I’d like that. I think I shall listen to some music.”
Isabel handed him an iPad and set of headphones. He opened the music program and tapped an icon, looking up with a slight smile. “Whoever thought it could be so easy to hear a Carl Nielsen symphony?”
“Is he a favorite of yours?”
“Indeed, a native born Dane. When I hear the music, I can picture the old country with perfect clarity—the islands and the meadows, the light and the chill air of the forests and farms. There is nothing quite like the bracing scent of the sea on a cold, clear morning.”
“Did you ever go back for a visit?”
“No. When I left, I knew it would be forever. There is nothing back there for me, nothing but memories, and they stay with me wherever I go.”
“I’ll have someone bring you a mug of tea,” said Isabel. “Alt vil være okay,” she told her grandfather, garnering a look of surprise from Mac.
“Ja, jeg ved.” Magnus nodded and gave her hand a pat, then put on the headphones and closed his eyes. Mac walked outside with her.
“You could tell he was tired, couldn’t you?” she said.
“Sure. Sometimes just sitting still can be exhausting, when you’re reliving times like that.”
“Yes, emotionally exhausting. It’s too easy to forget he was just a young teen when his family disappeared and he joined the underground. Dredging up all this trauma can’t be good for him. It’s exactly what I was worried about when you came here for this project.” She lifted her chin, sent him a challenging glare.
She had no idea how sexy she was when she looked at him like that.
“Li
sten, the last thing I want to do is upset the guy. If it’s having a negative impact on his health, I’m out of here.”
“Really?”
“Hell, yeah, really. I don’t make a practice of tormenting my subjects.”
“So...if you thought it was bad for Grandfather, you’d abandon the project. There would be no book.”
“Correct.” He watched her digest this information. It was kind of heartbreaking, seeing how torn she was. He had a crazy urge to touch her, pat her hand or her shoulder or...something.
“But he wants this. He wants a record of his life.”
“I can make you this promise. I’ll write it well. I’ll write the truth and I’ll be respectful about it. He’s been living with his memories whether or not he’s spoken of them out loud. You heard what he said—they’re always with him.”
“Do you think it’s good for him to talk about it?”
“Does he seem like he’s going to drop dead when he talks to me? No. He’s a sturdy old guy, Isabel. Tess told me he survived a head trauma last year, so I don’t think a trip down memory lane is going to do him in. He’s a grown man. If he changes his mind about doing this, he’ll tell me.”
She nodded, appearing to concede his point. “But the more he tells us, the more confused I get.”
“Sounds as if you’re the one who’s bothered by all this digging into the past, not your grandfather.”
Her gaze skated away. “I’m not bothered. Just...confused. He loved Eva, but then there’s the whole question of Erik’s mother.”
“Annelise Winther,” Mac said. “The birth mother. I’d like to meet her.”
She glanced up at him. “I imagine you will. She comes to visit sometimes. She and Magnus reconnected after his accident last year. She’ll be here for Tess’s bachelorette weekend.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s the world’s oldest living bachelorette.”
“So what’s a bachelorette party like? I’ve never been to one.”
“Because it’s girls only. Food and presents—the sillier and the prettier, the better. I love giving parties.” She offered a shy smile.