Touch the Sky (Young Underground #8)

by Robert Elmer

  Henrik glanced up from the Hungarian dictionary. “Did he say what?”

  “Only that it was a surprise.” Elise gave them a smug look, then eyed the pile of books on the table. “You’re never going to find the word like this.”

  “You could help us,” said Peter, turning another page. “Then maybe we would.”

  By that time, the librarian had returned to checking out books, and Elise picked out an Italian‑Danish phrase book from the stack.

  “Okay, so it’s not Hungarian,” Henrik decided after a few more minutes of searching. “And it’s not French.”

  “And it’s not Russian,” chimed in Peter. “This is impossible.”

  The librarian returned with a smile. “I think I have an answer for you kids,” she told them. “A gentleman over there told me he was certain the words were Arabic.”

  “How does he know?” asked Henrik, looking to see the man the librarian was talking about. Peter couldn’t see anyone, either.

  The librarian found a small Arabic phrase book and pulled it off the shelf. “Well, he didn’t speak any Danish, but he asked me in English what you children were looking for. When I told him, he smiled and said to look in the Arabic lexicon.”

  “Where is he?” Henrik asked.

  The librarian looked over at the other end of the room, then frowned. “Strange. He was there only a moment ago.”

  “Did he look like he was from the Middle East?” Peter wanted to know.

  The librarian nodded. “Well, yes, he was dark haired, with a mustache, and...” She touched her nose.

  Peter looked at Henrik, and his eyes were wide. “He was right here, watching us.”

  “Wait, here’s something,” said the librarian, handing over the small book. “Here’s that word you’re looking for. Part of the word for ‘synagogue.’ It says, ‘el mabad el yehudi.’ ”

  Elise leaned over to see, then pointed to the next page. “The word for ‘temple’ is ‘mabad.’ ”

  “I see what you’re saying.” Peter scratched his head. “If ‘mabad’ means temple, and ‘el mabad el yehudi’ means ‘synagogue...’ ”

  “Or maybe ‘Jewish temple,’ ” put in Henrik.

  Elise snapped her finger. “Then take away the ‘mabad’ part, and ‘yehudi’ means ‘Jewish.’ Or maybe just ‘Jew.’ ”

  The librarian nodded her head. “I think you kids are right. And here’s the other word you were looking for. ‘Wisik,’ you said?”

  Peter nodded and looked at the list of phrases the older woman was pointing to, and suddenly he felt cold. Especially as he remembered the man had been right there in the library, watching them.

  “What does it say?” asked Henrik.

  “Uh, Henrik...” Peter began. He took the phrase book and replaced it on the shelf while the librarian returned to her counter.

  “Thank you for helping us,” Elise told her.

  The librarian returned a nervous smile. “Glad to help.”

  “Peter!” Henrik reached for the book. “Come on, what does it mean?”

  “Dirty,” Peter finally blurted out as he headed for the door. “ ‘Wisik’ means ‘dirty’ in Arabic, okay? You can put the two words together as well as I can.”

  Henrik’s face fell, but he followed Peter and Elise out the door. “I guess I should have known by the way he said it that it didn’t just mean, ‘Excuse me, I’m so sorry for running you down.’ ”

  “But what if he’s out here?” wondered Elise, looking down the street.

  “I don’t see him,” noted Henrik, looking over his shoulder.

  Peter crossed his arms as he walked toward the harbor. “Well, at least we know one thing now that we didn’t know before. This man is definitely Arabic.”

  “Arabic.” Elise frowned. “That’s just the language. He’s either Egyptian or Palestinian or something like that.”

  “Whatever,” answered Henrik. “But we know he’s after Matthias, who’s trying to get a boatload of Jews to Palestine.”

  “Maybe he’s going to try to sink the ship,” Peter suggested.

  Henrik looked over his shoulder once more. “Maybe. In the meantime, I hope he doesn’t have any ideas about running me over again.”

  Peter put up his fists. “Don’t worry, Henrik. We’ll protect you.”

  Henrik smiled and slapped Peter on the shoulder. “That either makes me feel better or worse. I’m not sure which.”

  “Well, look, there’s nothing we can do about it now.” Elise skipped ahead. “Let’s go see Grandfather’s surprise for you at the boathouse.”

  Grandfather Andersen must have seen them coming because when they neared the harbor, he came rushing out of the boathouse, waving his arms and grinning.

  “Hold it, you kids!” he called to them. His grin gave him away.

  “Hi, Grandfather,” Peter called back. “Elise said—”

  “Don’t take another step,” warned Grandfather, holding up one hand for them to stop. “And, Peter, you cover Henrik’s eyes. That’s right, stand right there.”

  Peter did as he was told, but Henrik tried to peek through Peter’s fingers.

  “No fair,” Peter told him. “You heard what Grandfather said.”

  “What’s going on?” Henrik asked.

  Elise disappeared into the boathouse while Peter and Henrik stood waiting just outside.

  “Can I look yet?” Henrik sounded like a child at a surprise party.

  “Not yet!” Elise yelled from inside.

  A minute later, she and Grandfather emerged with what looked like a brand‑new bike. It was shiny black, and Peter had to squint when he looked at the polished chrome wheels.

  “Whose birthday is it?” asked Peter. “Can I let go of his eyes? He’s kind of sweaty.”

  Grandfather laughed. “Let him see.”

  Henrik just stood and blinked for a moment. He looked suspiciously at Peter and Elise.

  “So, what is this?” he asked them. “Someone’s new bike? I don’t—”

  Grandfather took a step back from the bike. “It’s yours, Henrik.”

  “Doesn’t look like mine,” Henrik whispered, walking carefully up to the bike as if he might frighten it away. “Where’s my old bike?”

  “This is it,” replied Grandfather.

  Peter stepped up to the bicycle with his friend, and Henrik ran his hand over the shiny back fender.

  “New wheels, new fenders, new paint job...” Henrik looked up at Grandfather Andersen. “How did you—I mean, why?”

  Grandfather just grinned. “It’s your going‑away present. Otherwise, how would you be able to go on your trip?”

  “My going‑away present,” Henrik repeated softly. He ran his hand up and down the fender.

  “Careful,” warned Grandfather. “That paint is still a bit wet. I’ve been working on it all night, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home for a little nap.”

  Henrik looked up, his eyes moist with tears. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Grandfather just smiled and waved his hand. There was a smudge of black paint on his nose. “Just have a good time on your trip,” he told Henrik. “Only a few more days before you leave, right?”

  Henrik nodded, and they wheeled his “new” bike into the boathouse to finish drying. In the corner, Peter noticed a pile of bent wheels and the skeleton of another bicycle—Grandfather Andersen’s bike, which he had obviously used for parts.

  “That reminds me,” Henrik said as they left the boathouse. “I’ve got a few things to give you when we pack. Both of you.”

  9

  Someone’s Watching

  “You don’t have to do this, Henrik.” Elise held up a book to the late‑afternoon light coming in Henrik’s bedroom window. “This is your favorite book.”

  “What am I going to do with a bird book in Palestine?” replied Henrik, sitting on his bed. “They probably don’t even have birds there. And besides, I told you I had some extra things.”

  “That
was a few days ago,” replied Elise. “I thought you would have changed your mind by now.”

  Henrik shook his head and reached under his bed. “I haven’t changed my mind.” He came up with a red cloth sack and held it out to Peter.

  “This is all I could think of to give you, Peter, besides my pigeon. And since we’re leaving tomorrow morning, I thought I’d give it to you now.”

  Peter, who was sitting backward on Henrik’s little desk chair, wasn’t sure about taking Henrik’s things, either. Somehow it made Henrik’s leaving seem too real, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe he could slow things down by saying no.

  “No,” Peter would tell him. “No, you’re not going to give me anything. No, you’re not going to get rid of all your furniture. No, you’re not going to move away.”

  But instead, Peter only took the sack and held it tightly. He knew what was inside.

  “You don’t have to give me anything,” Peter finally said as he looked inside the sack. “It’s taken you all your life to collect these bottle caps.”

  “I can get more. Here, take my soccer ball, too. Mother said we’re going to be traveling light.”

  “But you can’t just be giving away all your stuff,” protested Peter. He held the cloth sack and ball in his lap. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  Henrik shrugged. “Well, fact is, we’re hardly going to be able to bring anything with us on this ship.”

  “Not even a trunk?” asked Elise.

  Henrik shook his head. “Remember what Matthias said? The British won’t let too many Jews come back to Palestine. So at night we move in close to shore, and they let us off.”

  Peter whistled. “That’s why you’re giving away all your stuff?”

  Henrik didn’t answer right away.

  “It still doesn’t seem right,” Elise said.

  “Why not?” answered Henrik, nodding toward the kitchen, where his mother was talking with Peter and Elise’s mother. “We’re leaving on our bike trip tomorrow morning. We’re practically packed. My mother is getting rid of all our furniture.”

  No one said anything for a minute while Henrik sorted through his little desk. Peter tried to think of something he could give his friend in return.

  I don’t collect anything neat, like bottle caps, he thought. I can’t give him my cat. And I don’t have any money to buy something.

  Peter looked around Henrik’s room as they sat listening to the adults talking out in the kitchen. During the past few days, Henrik had pulled things off the walls and out of the closet, and he had filled his room with paper sacks full of old papers to throw out, things he had been saving for years. Peter picked up one, a picture of an airplane he remembered Henrik drawing when they were younger. A bear on a bicycle—their teacher had drawn a big star on that one. A drawing of all three of them. They looked like stick figures, but Peter swallowed hard.

  “If you’re going to throw this away...” Peter began, and Henrik waved his hand.

  “It’s ugly.”

  “No, it’s not,” Peter argued

  “Not like Elise’s drawings,” apologized Henrik. He jumped off his bed and scooped up a letter from his desk, then paused and looked at Peter. “You remember this letter?”

  Peter nodded. “The one from your grandfather to your dad?”

  Henrik looked uncertainly from Peter to Elise, then he sighed and handed the letter to Elise. “Here, read it out loud, Elise. Whenever you read something, it always makes a lot more sense.”

  Peter wondered what his friend was thinking, but Elise unfolded the letter as Henrik paced around the room.

  “ ‘It’s hard...’ ” she began reading, then cleared her throat. “ ‘It’s hard to admit when you’ve been so wrong for so long....’ ”

  Henrik looked out his window, reciting the first line while Elise kept reading. “ ‘And as a Jew, I’ve lived my whole life not knowing the Messiah. But last year, I read a book by an American rabbi. He had a lot to say about Palestine, and how the people of God were returning to Jerusalem.’ ”

  “You’ve got this letter memorized?” Peter looked over Elise’s shoulder to check the words. Every word was exactly as Henrik had recited.

  Henrik crossed his arms and avoided looking at the twins. “You know, you read something a few times, it sticks in your mind. The next part is the part I don’t quite get.”

  Peter remembered then what the rest of the letter said.

  Henrik closed his eyes, and his lips moved as Elise softly read the words. “ ‘He showed me that our Messiah had already come. He introduced me to the Messiah, the one he calls Yeshua. Jesus. Please don’t wait, as I have. I want to show you how the Scriptures come true in Yeshua.’ ”

  Elise paused before she read the last line of the letter. “ ‘Then you can introduce my grandchildren to Him someday, too.’ ”

  Peter held his breath, waiting for Henrik to open his eyes. This is my chance to say something to Henrik. A perfect chance to tell him what we believe.

  Henrik opened his eyes and looked at Peter. “You think I’m weird?”

  Peter laughed nervously. “ ‘Course not. Why would I?”

  “You’re not weird,” Elise answered quickly. “There’s nothing weird—”

  “Yeah, but how many kids do you know who memorize letters from their grandfather?” interrupted Henrik. “It seems every time I close my eyes, I can see the words.”

  Peter looked at his friend closely. “You never told us this before.”

  “Of course I’ve never told you this before!” Henrik threw up his hands. “If I did, you’d think I was crazy.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Peter replied quietly.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I said I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? You think it makes sense?”

  Peter nodded but looked down at the floor. “It’s what I believe,” he mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  Peter looked up, straight into Henrik’s eyes. “I said, it’s what I believe. About Jesus. The Messiah.”

  Henrik looked at his friend for a moment, almost suspiciously, and his dark eyes flickered. “That’s what I thought you said. But you act like you’re telling me about a pimple. If it’s so important, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  The question stung Peter, and he felt his face turning red from embarrassment. “I’ve... uh, tried, but...”

  Peter didn’t know how to finish the sentence, and the ticking of Henrik’s alarm clock was the only sound in the room for several long moments. Peter thought of ten things to say, but each one seemed sillier than the last.

  “Maybe Peter means that God is just trying to get your attention now,” Elise finally volunteered.

  “Maybe.” Henrik started to say something more, then hesitated.

  Before he could say anything else, someone knocked at the front door, and Mrs. Melchior called down the hallway. “Could you get that, Henrik? I’m in the kitchen.”

  Henrik sighed. “Sure, Mother.” Then he turned to the twins and held up his finger. “See? This proves another point of mine. Every time, and I mean every time, I’ve ever asked you something serious, we get interrupted.” He jabbed the air in front of him with his finger. “I think it’s a sign.”

  “It’s not a sign, Henrik,” Elise started to say.

  “Henrik?” his mother called once more.

  “I’m coming.” Henrik hurried out of the bedroom to answer the door.

  Peter sighed and looked at his sister. “We blew it again, Elise. I blew it.”

  “No you didn’t. It’s not like we’re going to die tomorrow and never get another chance to tell him.”

  Peter shrugged. “Maybe not, but...”

  They could hear a woman’s voice drifting in from the hallway.

  “I’ll bet it’s someone else from the neighborhood,” said Peter. “Coming to say good‑bye.”

  There was more talking, then the front door closed.

  “She’s
always been a good neighbor.” Mrs. Melchior sounded far away.

  “Here’s a handkerchief, Ruth,” said Peter’s mother.

  “I appreciate how you and Arne are taking care of things.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Ruth.” Mrs. Andersen’s voice sounded soothing, like a nurse telling a patient they were going to get better soon. “Arne knows someone at the bank who can get you a better price for your furniture. But it might take a few weeks, until after you leave. You don’t want to just give it away.”

  “That’s fine,” Henrik’s mother sniffed, and her voice cracked.

  “Once it’s all taken care of,” Mr. Andersen continued, “we’ll be sure to wire you the money right away. But you’re going to need to give us your address in Palestine as soon as you have one.”

  “Matthias says he is arranging a place for us.” Mrs. Melchior didn’t sound as sure as her words.

  Elise looked curiously at Henrik, who had slipped back to his room.

  “What are you frowning for?” she asked.

  Henrik flopped down on his bed. “Neighbors saying good‑bye. Furniture getting sold. And Matthias saying we’ll find a place in Palestine, no problem. As long as we don’t get shot at first.”

  “I’m sure he’s taking you to a safe part of the country,” suggested Elise.

  Henrik shook his head violently. “Haven’t you read the newspapers? There are bombs and people shooting at each other over there. And crazy terrorists like Mr. Broken Nose are here in Denmark besides. I mean, Matthias is a great guy, but what is my mother thinking?”

  Henrik sighed and shook his head, and Peter and Elise said nothing until Henrik’s mother appeared at the bedroom door. She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief.

  “Are you boys all ready for the big trip in the morning?” She forced a little smile.

  “I don’t know about the boys, Mrs. Melchior,” answered Elise, “but I just have to get a few more things packed.”

  “You?” Henrik’s mother looked puzzled.

  “That’s right.” Elise crossed her arms and nodded as if she had just decided something important. “I’m going, too. That is, if Lisbeth will come. I already asked Uncle Morten. We can’t let these boys just ride off and have all the fun.”