Touch the Sky (Young Underground #8)

by Robert Elmer

  “What—” began Henrik, but Grandfather held up his hand to silence him.

  “Just a little slip in the boatyard,” Grandfather almost growled. “Everything is fine.”

  Henrik looked down once more at Grandfather Andersen’s ripped pants and raw knee, then over at his mother. No one else dared say anything more about the injury.

  “Never felt better,” insisted Grandfather. “Now, here’s my apartment.”

  Grandfather Andersen lived in a small, ground‑level apartment just a few blocks from the harbor, crowded next to a little shop that sold rope, compasses, boat paint, and navigation charts. The owner, a middle‑aged fellow named Mr. Sverdrup, pushed the shop door open curiously.

  “Hey, Andersen,” the man said, “what happened to—”

  “Never felt better, Sverdrup.” Grandfather cut him off and limped to his unlocked front door. He turned to the twins and Henrik to wink at them. “Thanks for your help, kids.”

  After Grandfather slammed his door shut, they all stood out in the morning sunshine for a moment. Mr. Sverdrup gave them a strange look and disappeared back into his shop.

  “I suppose I don’t know anyone quite as stubborn as your grandfather,” Mrs. Andersen told the twins as she turned to go. She and Mrs. Melchior walked a couple of steps ahead of the twins and Henrik.

  “Hey, but guess what, Henrik?” Peter held up his finger. “Grandfather had a great idea for something we could do this summer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We could bike across the country!”

  “Pe‑ter,” warned Mrs. Andersen from up ahead. “That was just your grandfather talking. You’re still a little too young for that kind of trip.”

  She and Mrs. Melchior continued to chat. Henrik’s eyes lit up for just a moment, then his face fell as they walked on.

  “Sounds great, Peter,” Henrik said, “but...”

  “It would be great,” Peter continued, warming up to his idea. “We could ride all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, to my cousins’ farm in Ho Village. Stay in youth hostels sometimes, or maybe sleep under the stars. See the sights of Denmark. All the great castles, the lake country. And we could take the train home. What do you think, Elise? Think Mom and Dad would let us?”

  “I don’t know about the youth hostel part,” she answered.

  “What’s wrong with staying in hostels?” argued Peter. “They’re just like big houses, places to sleep for bike travelers. It would be fun.”

  “I know, but what about Henrik?”

  “Henrik?” Peter asked, trying to understand what his sister was saying. Henrik was dragging his heels against the sidewalk, looking down. Above them, the sound of an airplane grew louder, and they all looked up to see the red floatplane buzz by overhead. The plane dipped a wing, circled, and headed back out to sea as they watched.

  “Perfect timing,” Henrik said with a trace of disgust. He shaded his eyes, frowned, and sneezed. Then he turned to his friend. “I’m supposed to be leaving, remember? From the way Mother and Matthias were talking this morning, it sounds like we’re going to Palestine. Maybe you can go on a bike trip, but I can’t. My whole life is over.”

  “That’s just it,” replied Peter. “If you’re really going to go, then we just have to make this trip. It will be our last chance. Your mom has to say yes.”

  7

  He Knows What We Look Like

  “I’m not sure I want to go anymore,” Henrik shouted over his shoulder. He was pedaling his bicycle just ahead of Peter through the old part of the city. Even though it was after dinner, the sun had only just sunk enough to put them in the shadows.

  “How can you say that?” Peter called out after him. “Last week when we asked our folks, you were all for it. It’s going to be a great trip.”

  They were almost at the end of Henrik’s delivery route for Mr. Krogh at the pharmacy. Only one more bag remained in the wire basket on his handlebars. Henrik pedaled even faster and cut into a narrow cobblestone street between two rows of tall, old buildings. It was the kind of street that Peter could almost jump across in a single leap. Henrik didn’t answer.

  “So what do you mean?” Peter tried another way of asking. A car came in the opposite direction, and they had to ride single file to let it pass. “My parents said we could go. Your mom said we could go. Uncle Morten’s going with us. Why would you change your mind?”

  “I know all that,” Henrik finally answered, “and it’s not that I don’t want to go.”

  “What then? First you say—”

  “I want to go on this bike trip, okay? I just don’t want to get to where we’d be going.”

  “Oh, is that all? You’re going to love my cousins’ farm. They have sheep, and there’s a place to swim, and everything. It’s great.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Peter thought for a minute. “You’re talking about Palestine again, right?”

  Henrik nodded as they made a left turn into another tiny street. “I’ve been thinking about how we could work things out. Maybe my mother could go by herself.”

  Henrik paused, and Peter wondered if he was asking a question or just thinking aloud.

  “No matter what happens,” Henrik continued, “promise you’ll help me stay, okay, Peter?”

  Now Peter really didn’t know what to say. Could Henrik really stay behind in Denmark?

  “You’ll help me?” repeated Henrik, crossing over to the left side of the little alley.

  From behind them, Peter could hear a grinding of gears and a car or truck speeding their way. He glanced over his shoulder to see what looked like a small black English sedan, going much faster than it should have been. And for an instant, something about the driver made Peter gasp. He had seen that face before.

  Peter swerved into a shallow doorway just as the car screamed past.

  “Henrik!” Peter yelled, but it was too late. The car swerved over to the left side of the lane, and it might have missed Henrik if the driver hadn’t popped open his door at the last moment.

  The door caught Henrik’s rear fender like a bat hitting a ball, sending Henrik and his wheels sailing. Peter thought he heard the sound of laughing above the sickening crash of metal and Henrik’s frightened cry. Almost before Henrik landed in a heap on the sidewalk, the car had disappeared down the alley in a cloud of blue smoke.

  “Henrik!” Peter let his bicycle fall and sprinted over to the pile of twisted wheels and metal that surrounded his friend. He had the feeling that he had just seen something like this, then he remembered how his grandfather had been pushed down in almost the same way. Henrik sat up as Peter reached him.

  “Who hit me?” he asked, his eyes wide with surprise. Peter looked him over. The bicycle looked more like a pretzel than something to ride, and Henrik wore it around his waist like a tuba player in a marching band. But Henrik, incredibly, was left only scratched and bruised.

  “Are you all right?” someone asked. Peter turned to see an older couple hurrying toward them. Another woman pushed open a second‑story window just above them, but no one else seemed to be on the street just then.

  Henrik, his eyes still wide, nodded and tried to stand up, but he fell on top of his bicycle.

  “Careful, Henrik,” Peter warned. He and the older man helped Henrik untangle himself and get to his feet, while Henrik stared at the cloud of car smoke still floating slowly into the summer evening. Peter could almost hear the echo of the car door thumping Henrik from behind.

  “The driver was aiming for me, right?” Henrik whispered.

  Peter knew the answer, but he couldn’t get it out. He replayed the scene in his mind where he looked back to see the face of the man. The same man who had been spying on Matthias at the Acropolis.

  “Well?” Henrik asked once more.

  Peter had to nod. “Yes. I saw who it was.”

  “Thank you.” Henrik nodded politely to the man who helped him untangle his feet from the wrecked bicycle.

  “Someon
e you know?” asked the man, who was about Grandfather Andersen’s age. “You should go to the police,” he told them. His wife nodded in agreement.

  “Thank you,” repeated Henrik, looking at his ruined bike. “I think we will after I make this last delivery.”

  Henrik bent down and picked up the brown paper sack from the pharmacy, checked inside to make sure the prescription was all right, then limped to the corner.

  “Henrik,” Peter objected, “you can do that later. Mr. Krogh will understand.”

  But Henrik didn’t look back. He knocked on a door and delivered his package, then limped back. By that time, the older couple had continued on their walk.

  “So who do you think it was?” Henrik asked. He stood over his twisted bicycle with his arms crossed.

  “The man with the crooked nose—the spy we saw on the Greek ship,” pronounced Peter. “I saw him. And it’s not like he was trying to hide from us or wear a mask.”

  Henrik tried to straighten the front wheel of his bike. “Did you see the license plate on the car?”

  Peter shook his head. “All I saw was that it was a little English car. Black.”

  “But why me? I thought he was spying on Matthias.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you see? This man must have been watching Matthias long enough to know who we are. You and your mom, too. Maybe he figures that if he can get to you, he can get to Matthias.”

  Henrik shivered. “That’s really creepy. I wonder what he wants.”

  “I don’t know, but, Henrik, we have to find out who this man is. Did you see anything else, hear anything? Anything?”

  “Last thing I heard before he smacked into me was him laughing. And something else...” Henrik’s voice trailed off and he looked up as if he was trying to remember. “He yelled something at me. It sounded like ‘yehoodee.’ ”

  “What?” asked Peter.

  “ ‘Yehoodee,’ ” Henrik repeated. “ ‘Yehoodee wisik.’ ”

  “Oh boy.” Peter sighed. “We’ve got a strange one this time. Let’s take this bike back to the boathouse. Maybe Grandfather can help us figure this mess out.”

  “Yehoodee what?” Grandfather Andersen scratched his head with the end of a wrench. The frame of Henrik’s bike was sitting upside down on the workbench in front of them. “I’ve never heard of such a word.”

  “I’ll bet it’s Greek, or Turkish,” Henrik guessed. “Something like that.”

  “Or maybe the guy just sneezed,” Peter suggested, trying to stifle a smile.

  Henrik frowned, like it wasn’t time for a joke. “He practically spit the words out at me, Peter. Like it was some kind of curse.” He wrinkled his face together and tried to make his lips say the strange‑sounding words once more. “Yehoodee wisik.”

  Peter covered his mouth with his hand so Henrik wouldn’t see him grinning. Come on, this is serious, he scolded himself.

  “Sounds Middle Eastern to me,” guessed Grandfather Andersen, spinning a wobbly bike wheel in his hands. “And maybe you don’t want to find out what it means.” Grandfather Andersen put down the wheel, shook his head, and gave the bike frame a whack with his rubber mallet.

  “But it’s a clue,” Henrik insisted. “If we find out what he’s saying, we can find out where he’s from, and maybe what he’s up to.”

  Grandfather nodded. “What he’s up to is knocking people down.”

  “I think it was the same guy who hit you, too,” Peter said, crossing his arms. He leaned against the chicken wire that separated Grandfather’s shop area from the pigeon coop. “Difference is, he was definitely aiming for Henrik.”

  Henrik frowned. “He was aiming for me, all right. And he was laughing.”

  “I don’t think this is funny for a minute,” replied Grandfather, looking more closely at the frame. “Seeing this bike, I’m just glad you weren’t hurt worse than you are. I don’t know if we can fix it.”

  A fluttering of wings inside the pigeon coop caught their attention, and Peter looked to see a homing pigeon poke its head through their one‑way door up near the roof. The bird looked through the set of bars, like a miniature jailhouse window, hesitated, then pushed through and started strutting around the other birds.

  “Looks like your bird is finally back,” observed Grandfather. “Which one is he?”

  Henrik stepped into the pigeon cage and cornered the returned bird. There was a short flapping of wings, then Henrik came out of the coop, holding a wiggling handful of feathers.

  “Here you are,” Henrik cooed to his bird. “We thought you were never getting home.” He looked up to answer Grandfather’s question. “It’s my bird—Number One, the best flyer.”

  “I don’t know. Number Two would have made it home faster.” Peter took up the challenge, the same way they had ever since Grandfather Andersen had given them their homing pigeons years ago. But this time, Henrik wasn’t smiling as he solemnly handed his bird over to Peter.

  “Here,” Henrik told him. “I want you to have Number One.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Peter took the bird and held him while Henrik unsnapped the little message capsule that had been strapped to the bird’s leg. “How far do you think he flew?”

  “No, you don’t understand,” insisted Henrik. “I want you to have him for good. This was the last time I’ll ever fly my bird.”

  When he loosened his grip for a second, Peter could feel the powerful bird struggling to get free. Then he understood what Henrik was trying to tell him.

  “No, Henrik. Maybe I could just take care of him for you while you’re gone.” He opened the pigeon coop door with his foot and released Number One to join the others. Peter and Elise each had their own bird, and Grandfather Andersen had four of his own.

  “He’s yours now,” Henrik raised his voice. “Unless we do something about it, my mother is going to marry Matthias, and I’m moving to Palestine and probably never coming back. And on top of that, my bike’s destroyed, so now I can’t even go on the trip with you!”

  Henrik ran from the boathouse, slamming the door behind him. Peter just stared, his eyes wide.

  “Go ahead,” his grandfather told him quietly. “I’ll just work on this bicycle some more.”

  Peter looked carefully out the door before he left the boathouse, almost afraid to follow his friend. The June night was still light. He spied Henrik standing on a pier by the water’s edge, studying something he held in his hands.

  “Your mom hasn’t said yes yet,” began Peter. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

  “Yeah, but she’s going to. It’s pretty obvious.”

  “I don’t know....”

  “I do. And then he’s going to want me to call him ‘Father,’ as if my real dad was never alive. It’s going to be horrible.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. He’s just pushing it too fast.” Henrik scowled and crumpled a little piece of paper.

  “I’m sorry, Henrik.” Peter wished he could say something to cheer up his friend, but his mind went blank. “Is that the message from Matthias?”

  Henrik threw the wad of paper as far out into the harbor as he could. “Says he’s fine. Says he’ll see us on the coast when he brings that rusty, old ship around to pick us up. Stupid old ship.”

  “What about the man who was spying on him?” Peter wanted to make sure. “Did he say anything about that?”

  Henrik shook his head. “It’s just a scrap of paper, Peter. He didn’t write a book. Besides, you said you saw him here. The one that—”

  “Yeah, I know. I just... I was just wondering. Kind of hoping that somehow I was wrong.”

  Henrik stared out at the harbor as a ferry from Sweden came in, followed by a flock of sea gulls.

  Peter cleared his throat. “You know that man—whoever he is—he knows what we look like now.”

  “I know. I’m just not sure what he wants. Except to spy on Matthias and make my life miserable.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe if we knew wha
t ‘yehoodee’ meant,” suggested Peter, “we could figure out what he’s up to.”

  “Yehoodee wisik.” Henrik frowned as they watched the little wad of paper disappear under a dock. The stars began to appear in the darkening sky above them. “We have got to find out what that means.”

  8

  The Gift

  The next morning, Friday, it was the city librarian’s turn to giggle at the strange word puzzle.

  “I’m sorry.” She covered her grin, just as Peter had the day before. “Perhaps we can look up your word in a lexicon of some sort. That’s a book that lists all the words in a language alphabetically.”

  Peter had been to the city library dozens of times before, but he had never been able to make the librarian smile. Peter and Henrik followed her to a corner of the room.

  “Here, why don’t you look through this one,” she suggested, pulling a thick volume off the top shelf. Peter nodded and opened a Greek‑Danish dictionary, but he stopped when he saw the strange lettering.

  “This isn’t going to help,” he whispered to Henrik. “I can read the Danish part, but the Greek letters are all different.”

  The librarian kept handing them books to try, though, and soon Peter couldn’t see Henrik behind the stack on the little table.

  “Yehoodee,” repeated the librarian, pulling out another large volume. “And where did you hear this word?”

  Henrik looked up from a French‑Danish dictionary. “Uh, I just ran into someone on the street. I was curious.”

  The Russian‑Danish lexicon wasn’t any help, either, so the librarian pulled out an Italian‑Danish dictionary. But half an hour later they were still looking.

  “I’m afraid this may take a while,” admitted the librarian. She looked over her half‑shell glasses past Peter, and he turned around to see his sister standing behind him.

  “What are you guys doing? Mom said you went to the library.”

  “Just a little research to find out what ‘yehoodee wisik’ means,” answered Peter. “Want to help?”

  Elise shook her head. “I came to tell you that Grandfather wants to see you both at the boathouse when you get a chance. He has something to show you.”