by Robert Elmer
But Henning could have been right about one thing. It had all started with the bicycle accident. And now?
Perhaps it really had affected his head.
"Well, Steffen?" As they walked down Nørrebrogade a few moments later, Henning was obviously waiting for an answer, but Steffen remained silent as his brother continued.
"I admit I presumed quite a bit back there in the shop."
Yes, Henning had presumed, and quite a bit at that. But Steffen flexed his arms and remembered the satisfaction of competitive rowing, back before his seminary days. And he had won a few races, had he not?
"You said you wanted to help," added Henning. "But if you can't do it, tell me now and we'll find someone else. I know it sounds crazy. But are you in? I need to know."
Perhaps it was the kind of thing best prayed over and contemplated.The kind of thing about which he should seek God, making sure he did the right thing. But he also knew that they had to act tonight, and act quickly. And if he didn't agree?
"I'll do it," he said, before he could change his mind. "All right? I'll do it."
15
NYHAVN HARBOR, KØBENHAVN
SATURDAY EVENING, 2 OKTOBER 1943
For God does not create a longing or a hope without having a ful-
filling reality ready for them. But our longing is our pledge,
and blessed are the homesick, for they shall come home.
—ISAK DINESEN, IN THE DIVER
Steffen didn't think anyone could see him as he bobbed in the inky cold water under the Nyhavn bridge. Probably not. Maybe not. But he held his breath when two German soldiers walked past on the cobblestone street above, obviously enjoying their evening a bit too much. One of them lit a cigarette, fumbling with a match as the other sang a German drinking song, off-key. These Germans seemed quite happy to spend the war taking in the comforts of occupied Danmark.
So Steffen burrowed a little deeper under the canvas and covered his head so that only his eyes could see out. Here it smelled of tar, seawater, and old fish— a combination that made his stomach squirm. He tried to breathe through his mouth while not making a sound.
The good news was that no one seemed to notice the long, narrow rowboat as it tugged on its mooring line and occasionally scraped against the stone embankment. Not the passing German soldiers—who eventually moved on—and not anyone else. The bad news was that he'd begun to shiver after seawater in the bottom of the boat sloshed up high enough to soak his knees and ankles.
"You could have at least gotten me a boat that didn't leak, Henning," he mumbled and shifted his weight. A tin cup washed against his foot, and he used it to bail out a few more scoops. The water made his fingers needle-numb. How had he gotten himself into this mess?
To pass the time, he chewed on a small piece of salty black salmiak licorice and did his best to run through the sermon outline for the next morning, the one he'd deliver if he actually came back alive. But all he could think of was the opening verse of their reading for tomorrow, the fifteenth week after Trinity Sunday.
Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
"Easy for someone else to say," mumbled Steffen as he tried to crouch above the cold waters. His shoes leaked and his socks felt wet when he wiggled his toes. He worried what his shoes might look like tomorrow when he stepped into the pulpit. Don't be anxious for tomorrow? What about being anxious for the next hour? He hunched down a little more under the tarp and dared to snap on the flashlight he'd brought, just to check the time on his wristwatch.
Eleven-forty. Almost midnat. If he was lucky, perhaps no one would show up, and then he would just have to worry about making it home again to his own warm bed, dry and safe and nowhere near the harbor that assaulted his nostrils with pungent odors of beer and low tide.
Except if they didn't show, that meant he would still have to care for them in the church basement, unless they could find another, more reasonable way of getting to safety. No one had ever explained to him why they hadn't just been put on the train to Gilleleje with everyone else.
Don't be anxious for tomorrow? He wondered how four normal-sized people might even fit under the tarp here without tipping the boat over backward. And then he heard footsteps up on the cobblestones again, this time much softer than the heavy thud of German boots—a shuffle and then a stumble, a pause and then a sprint—and then two people stood awkwardly next to the boat, each holding a large suitcase.
Oh, no. Herr and Fru Levin. Standing out in the open, looking for all the world as if they were ready to take a cruise together.
"Under here!" Steffen hissed, motioning for them to come closer. He jumped out of the boat and pulled them in under the shelter of the bridge. "You were supposed to come one at a time."
"It's my fault," said Fru Levin. "I didn't want to come alone."
"No, it's not." Her husband set up his argument. "I wouldn't let you."
"Shh." Steffen managed to clamp a hand over the man's mouth. "Never mind."
The bigger question was, how did they manage to come all this way with their suitcases! And not attract attention? Steffen craned his neck to see if anyone had followed, or if any soldiers approached. He saw none. Good. But they still had a problem.
"Those suitcases," he began. "There's no way we can take them with us. You'll hide them up there, under the bridge."
Through the darkness he could hear the despair creep into Fru Levin's voice.
"But my wedding dress is in there."
"All right, then. You decide: your wedding dress, or your husband. Because trust me, there's not room on this little boat for both."
They looked at each other for a moment before Herr Levin grabbed his wife's suitcase and shoved it into the deeper shadows, farther underneath the span.
"I told you not to bring all that stuff," he grumbled, far too loudly. "We'll never get it across, I said. And now look what's happening."
Steffen felt a pair of desperate hands grip his shoulders.
"You'll take it back to your church, will you not?" Fru Levin's voice trembled. "You don't know how much it means to me. Then when we come back—"
She dissolved again into tears and Steffen honestly wished he could have promised her, or lied to her. All he could do was turn away to pull the tarp into place, helping them step into the back of the small boat.
"Keep your weight down," he ordered. "Find a place in the bottom of the boat and stay there."
"But . . ." Fru Levin objected once more. "It's wet down here!"
This time her husband shushed her as they found their places. And by this time Steffen knew it would take a miracle for them not to be discovered even before they left the shelter of the bridge.
"Is this the right place?" Now the couple's friend, Elias, tapped Steffen on the shoulder. Where had he come from? At least he kept his voice down, but when he signaled to the darkness Hanne's mother emerged to join them, and Steffen hurried her along. Tonight the darkness might be their best friend, but it would not also swallow all the noise they had to be making. At least these two weren't carrying suitcases.
"Into the back of the boat," Steffen told them, aware that the stern had already dipped dangerously. "Hurry."
But he wasted no time giving instructions or redistributing the weight; he simply tossed the tarp over the four of them and prayed they wouldn't immediately capsize. And then, once he'd untied the last rope holding them fast, he pushed out from their shelter and into the dark but open canal.
It had been a few years. But the oars felt snug in his grip, and he braced his feet against one of his passengers. Despite the danger of the open water, he smiled as he reached for his first stroke, deep and slow as they turned and made way for the inner harbor.
"It's still wet," he heard Fru Levin whimper in the darkness.Her husband told her to stay quiet, and Steffen fell into a rhythm as they glided silently past the dark ghosts of fishing cutters and empty fr
eighters. Reach, pull, pause. Water gurgled under the bow as they avoided the outlines of cranes and piers on the shore. Feather the oars so they won't catch.He remembered his last race, when a stitch in his side had slowed him down and cost him the race.
This time he fell into deep, regular breaths, keeping his eye only on the tiny wake that sparkled in the moonlight that had just ventured out from behind a cloud. A glance over his shoulder every few strokes helped keep them from veering too far off course, and then he pulled in earnest, digging in and arching his back with each stroke, faster and faster.Perhaps he could do this, after all. A ripple of a breeze sent tiny waves across the inner harbor, scudding under the bow with a comforting rhythm and the occasional slap against the hull. He could almost have forgotten the danger all around them until his cargo began to move and the boat listed dangerously to the side without warning.
"Stay down!" Steffen almost shouted as he missed a stroke and toppled backward into the bow of the boat, arms and legs flying. The oar slipped out of his right hand with a splash, leaving him on his back with just the left one.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, hoping his voice didn't carry across the waters. Fru Levin's head popped out from underneath the tarp.
"I'm going to be ill," she announced, and Steffen thought it was probably a good thing she was so close to the edge of the boat. But as the boat rocked even more her husband grabbed her around the shoulders in obvious panic while cold water washed in over the side.
Without thinking Steffen leaned out the other side, doing all he could to balance the panic. But instead of steadying the boat he tumbled over the side into the icy harbor.
"Pastor!" he heard someone shout his name, while the shock of icy water closed all around him with a thousand needles, sucking the air from his lungs. He flailed his arms and swallowed a mouthful of bitter seawater until he connected with something hard—the oar!
Meanwhile a dark shape approached from the direction of the sound, and he heard a low, distinct chugging coming closer, directly at them. If he could have scrambled back up into the boat and steered away, he would have. Instead, all he could do was slip the oar back into their boat and cling to the rail as a fishing cutter pulled up alongside, nearly sandwiching him in the process. He looked up to see strong hands grab him by the shoulders and lift him clear.
"Trying to swim all the way, are you?" A man in dark coveralls looked him over from the deck of the fishing boat, hands on his hips. A scale-encrusted pile of net lay on the deck beside him as Steffen gasped for breath, still on his knees on the rough wood deck.
"Should we throw him back, Neils?" The man who had rescued Steffen seemed to think he was quite funny. "He's pretty small."
"Shut up and get the others on board," answered a man behind the wheel. Their engine popped as they idled in a gentle swell. "German patrol should be coming back this way any time, and they all need to be down in the hold."
"What about the boat they came in?" asked the fisherman.
"Let it sink, Mogens. We don't have time to fool with it."
"Nej, wait. I'm not going." By that time Steffen had regained some of his breath, and he was able to struggle to his feet with a raised hand. He'd left a large puddle of dark seawater on deck, and his wet clothes clung to his body. He couldn't keep from shivering.
"Can't change your mind now." Mogens the fisherman appraised him even as he lifted the other four refugees over the side of the larger boat. "You heard him, get below."
"You don't understand. I'm not Jewish. I just rowed these others out here for you to pick up. I have to get back. In fact, I have a sermon to preach in the morning."
Mogens looked at him a little longer, then broke out laughing.
"Did you hear that, Neils? This one says he has a sermon to preach. What's it going to be about, walking on the water? Because if you think you're going back in that thing . . ." He pointed at the rowboat, nearly awash. "You're going to need some divine intervention."
"Perhaps. But we got here in that boat, and I am going back in it."
"Let's go!" Neils leaned out of the pilothouse in the stern as he revved up the engine and pointed toward a distant light on the water, moving quickly their direction. "In or out, I don't care. But the Germans are coming this way, and we're not going to have passengers out on deck when they pass by."
"I'm going. Thank you. Tak." Steffen straddled the kneehigh railing and prepared to jump. The little boat would have to hold him, one way or another. But before he could make his move, Hanne's mother grabbed him around the neck and landed a kiss on his cheek.
"You didn't have to do this," she told him as the lights from the patrol boat drew nearer. "But please, my Hanne, she . . ."
Her voice faltered as Mogens tossed a bucket into the little boat with a wave. Steffen thought she said something about "was going to be married," but that made no sense.
"What did you say?" he asked. But the others had pulled Hanne's mother way from the side of the boat.
"Lay low," Mogens told Steffen. "They won't see you if we get their attention. But if they spot you, well, you seem to know how to swim pretty well."
Which didn't sound encouraging, but Steffen did know how to lay low. He'd been getting plenty of practice in that.So he crouched in the bottom of the boat, trying to ignore the cold water that washed around his feet and over his ankles. He looked back up at the fishing boat as it powered up and turned away toward the distant Swedish coast, here only about twenty-five kilometers across the Sound. Lights winked just north of distant Malmö, neutral in the conflict and a safe haven for the Jews he had delivered this far. He imagined Hanne's mother huddled now in the safety of the fishing cutter as they faded from sight.
"Don't worry," he whispered, and the words surprised him."I'll take care of her. I promise."
Which seemed rather audacious, especially given the circumstances.Right now, he wasn't at all certain he could take care of himself, much less Hanne Abrahamsen. He wasn't even sure he could get himself back into Nyhavn without being seen, and before dawn. He imagined a half-drowned man rowing a small boat in from the Sound might not go unnoticed.
For now he could only remain low in the drunken little boat as it rocked in the waves, sluggish and drifting before a freshening wind that carried traces of distant mown hay and golden leaves in neat piles, the scent of green things in gardens, laying down for an autumn nap of freedom.
Was that the scent of freedom?
Steffen found himself wondering how a breakfast in Sweden might taste as he listened to the chug-chug of the fishing boat, this time growing fainter in the distance. Perhaps those wonderful pancakes, topped with sweet lingonberry sauce. Meanwhile the lights from the German patrol boat grew larger as they powered by with a throaty buzz, powerful and throbbing, and to be avoided at all cost.
Steffen watched, never taking his eyes off the lights. He even wondered if he might actually jump into the water and try to hide if it came toward him, the way Mogens the fisherman had suggested. Probably it would do no good. They would find him, and if they did, they would connect his presence there in the Sound with the departing fishing boat, headed toward Sweden.
Father, let them be blind, he prayed for the men on the boat, and as he prayed he forgot to shiver. Blind and deaf. Show them nothing but a dark, empty sea.
He waited, bucket in hand. And the German patrol did not seem to change course, but remained a kilometer or two off shore as it continued south. Another wave sloshed over the side of his boat, waking Steffen once more to the very real danger of completely swamping. And who would come to his aid if he did?
Still he felt cheered as he laid to the task of bailing as much water as he could from the boat. Good thing Mogens from the fishing boat had thrown him the bucket. Bailing with a tin cup might not have worked as well. Ten minutes later, he had the water back down to the floorboards, and the exertion helped him almost forget how wet he still was, except that now his clothes rubbed under his arms and across his chest,
painful and like cold sandpaper.
Never mind.
Finally he shipped both oars back into place and pointed directly away from the scent of farms, directly away from the lights of Malmö and back to the darkness of his home—a fearful city guarded by a silent, cold mermaid. He pulled with a steady rhythm once more, quickening the pace and ignoring the chapped pain of his wet clothes. He rowed faster now, and his breathing matched each stroke, regular and strong, as he headed for home.
Did I really say I'd take care of her? he asked himself, not allowing the caution that had always framed his life to blot out the picture of Hanne Abrahamsen, who he knew was the real reason he had just done this crazy, insane thing.
He kept pulling at his oars, moving backward toward the familiar threat of curfews and ugly hooked crosses, backward toward the deadly occupation where Hanne and so many others still hid in closets and barns. For his beloved Danmark was not yet, as the Germans supposed, judenrein. He strained at the oars, now harder than ever, ignoring the blisters forming on his palms and fingers. He rowed away from the scent of freedom and back to the terror, before he could change his mind.