And what about his own family? Had Grams, Annelise, and Erik managed to elude the authorities and flee to Sweden? Until he received news of them, Axel could do nothing but leave his worries to the Lord. He breathed a silent prayer for them all.
Reaching over to the boy’s sleeping form, he gently roused the youngster awake, then rose to his feet.
Shimon grimaced and stretched his thin, seven- or eight-year-old body, then squinted up at Axel as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Time to get up?”
Axel nodded, brushing dried flakes of mud from his rumpled clothes. “I think we slept a good half the day away already. And I’ll bet that lady friend of yours will make sure we know it.” The thought of the wild-eyed redhead brought a grin. That one sure was a handful. Always ready for a fight. Nothing like the women he normally chose to spend time with. “By the way, what’s her name?”
“Sorena. That’s all I know.” Shimon kicked out of the blankets. “She’s only been our neighbor for a couple of months. She lives in an apartment down the hall from us. And she works all the time.”
Sorena. Such a gentle-sounding name for a shrew. Finding his dress shoes, Axel banged them against the floor of the loft, dislodging most of the caked dirt, then slipped them on. “Let’s climb down from here and find out what Sorena’s up to.” Hopefully this day held more promise than yesterday had offered.
Stepping from the last rung of the ladder to the ground, Axel noted that all the stalls that had housed cows the night before were now vacant. Had he actually slept through the milking and feeding, the clanging of bells as the cattle were turned out to pasture? Incredible. Even if the dairyman had seemed wholly trustworthy, Axel couldn’t recall having let down his guard so completely since the outbreak of the war. Not good for one’s health in today’s Denmark.
“Oh, wow! Look at this!” Shimon pointed to a spot on the filthy black Cadillac parked just inside the barn doors. The boy ran a finger across one of the bullet holes marring its once pristine exterior.
The gouges and the shattered rear window attested to last night’s narrow escape. “Oh well, we’re alive. That’s the important thing,” Axel replied, calculating the time and expense the repairs would involve—not that he could ever be seen driving the car again. “Let’s go up to the house. Maybe we can borrow some soap and a towel.”
Shimon eyed him with disdain. “Not me. I don’t need to get cleaned up. I was inside the car the whole time. I didn’t get dirty like you.”
“Maybe not,” Axel said, cautiously surveying the uncluttered barnyard and beyond to the road before they stepped into bright sunlight. “But you know how women are. I’m sure the lady of the house will insist on both of us washing up.”
The youngster cast him a scathing look.
Something moved off to the side.
Axel spun to face it, then relaxed. A dairyman near his own age came sauntering from the edge of the barn, a pitchfork in hand. Obviously not a Nazi.
“Morning,” the wiry, muscular fellow said, a broad grin displaying a mouthful of healthy teeth. He leaned the tool up against the lower stone half of the structure, then hooked a thumb around the strap of his overalls as he studied Axel and the boy with undeniable interest. “Or maybe I should make that afternoon. It’s lunchtime.”
Axel offered the wavy-haired stranger a good-natured shrug.
Shimon surprised Axel by taking his hand as they started toward the square clapboard dwelling a short distance away. Gone was the bravado he’d displayed earlier.
Axel made a mental vow to keep the child safe. “Lunch, eh?” he remarked as they neared the dairyman. “That’ll sure hit the spot.” His stomach growled at the mere thought of the substantial meal the farmer’s wife would likely serve. He’d missed supper last night and guessed that the boy had, too. “I’d introduce myself, but it’s probably safer for your kind family if I don’t. You understand.”
“Don’t see how knowing first names could hurt.” The young fellow wiped his hand on his pant leg, then offered it. “Name’s Knud. I live here with my folks.”
Axel liked his open friendliness immediately. “Glad to meet you, Knud. I’m Axel, and my buddy here is Shimon. You have no idea how grateful we were last night to happen on such a welcoming farm right when we needed it most.”
Knud nodded, his lopsided smile a bright slash in his sun-reddened complexion. “Oh, I have a pretty fair idea of it. Come on. Let’s go see what Ma’s cookin’ up.” He led the way to the house.
After scraping off the remaining dried dirt on a worn scrub brush that had been nailed to the floor near the back door for that purpose, Axel followed Knud and Shimon through the service porch. Loaded shelves held a variety of canned goods, stored items, washtubs, and galvanized pails. But all thought of the practical and functional faded as the aromas of good country cooking met Axel’s nostrils.
“You’ve a bunch of hungry men to feed, Ma,” Knud commented as they entered the old roomy kitchen, where an assortment of hanging pots and utensils above a worktable reflected the light from calico-curtained windows. He removed a twill cap from his back pocket and looped it on a wall hook beside the door.
A sturdy woman in a simple gray cotton housedress and floral bib apron glanced up from setting the oblong table in the center of the room. Only the most cursory of smiles appeared on her round, weathered face as she silently resumed her work. Understandably she was less than thrilled over the danger her husband had invited into their home.
“Good morning, madam,” Axel said, his mannerly greeting and friendly tone implying his appreciation of her sacrifice. But all the while, he knew he had to be a ridiculous sight in his irreparably ruined tuxedo. He hoped there were no bits of dirt falling from it onto her shiny varnished floor.
The enticing smell of sizzling potatoes reached him, and he turned.
Sorena stood at the cast-iron stove flipping potato pancakes. The sight of her didn’t make things any easier. Having risen hours before he and Shimon, she wore a fresh dress and crisp apron, her long hair brushed into an attractive pageboy. Even her freckles looked somehow at home in this setting with this family. But he knew her superior smirk was for him alone.
Axel cleared his throat and directed his attention to their hostess. “My name is Axel, madam,” he said with his best smile, “and my young friend is Shimon. I cannot tell you how much we appreciate your kind hospitality.”
The older woman reached up a hand to tuck a stray hair from her bun back into place. She raised her chin a notch and gave a resigned nod as her humorless gaze raked across them. “I suppose a welcome is in order, considering your plight. Let’s just hope your trouble doesn’t become ours as well.” Her attention switched to her son. “Knud, take these two upstairs to wash. Food’s about ready.”
So his name is Axel. Sorena began removing golden-brown pancakes from the skillet onto a warming plate. He was certainly pleasant and forthcoming with these farm folk. But then, it is to his advantage, after all.
His display of gentlemanly manners began to wear thin, however, after a good fifteen minutes had passed without him or the other two reappearing from upstairs. With nothing left to do but wait, Sorena sat at the table with the older couple. Polite conversation had petered out some time ago, so now she avoided their eyes and gazed about the homey room while the elaborate cuckoo clock on the wall announced a new hour and the delicious-smelling spread of food grew cold. Hands in her lap below the plain linen tablecloth, she tapped her fingertips together in agitation. Part of her felt guilty for ruining their nice meal, even though she knew exactly whose fault it was. Undoubtedly the playboy was upstairs trying to restore himself to his former glory.
“The wife says you work at a bicycle factory in the city,” Knud’s rawboned father said from the table’s head, his words more a query than a statement. Plucking gold-rimmed spectacles off his nose, he swiped the lenses with a kerchief from his overalls pocket.
“Yes.” Thankful for the diversion, Sorena elaborated
a bit more. “I worked there until yesterday. I don’t think I’ll be able to go back, though. Not after helping Shimon to escape. It won’t be safe to return to my flat, either.”
“What will you do?” his wife asked, empathy evident in her tone. “Where will you go?” But before Sorena could answer, the woman’s focus shifted to the hall doorway and the sound of approaching footsteps.
Axel strode into the kitchen first, his evenly tanned features and incredibly blond hair making even the cambric work shirt and coarse trousers he wore look stylish.
Sorena deliberately averted her gaze back to the farmer’s wife. “Thank you, ma’am, for your concern, but I really can’t think about anything else until I know Shimon is safely situated.” She glanced at Knud, also in a fresh shirt, his light brown hair neatly combed into a high wave above his forehead, most likely to impress her as he’d tried to do every time he’d come in this morning.
She centered on the boy, and her mood lightened. She couldn’t help smiling at the effort that had gone into slicking down those unruly curls. “Come sit by me.” She patted the wooden chair next to her—the only empty one on her side of the table. Far more comforting to have Shimon there than either rude Axel or the oversolicitous Knud.
The youngster, seeming to appreciate the invitation, ran to join her and scooted into his seat. He grabbed his fork and grinned up at her, exposing a missing eyetooth. “Sure smells good.”
“I agree,” the gray-headed man of the house said, wagging his own fork at the boy. “How about we all sit down so I can ask the good Lord to bless the food.”
Sorena bowed her head but barely heard the rumble of the lanky dairyman’s prayer as the two young men took their places directly across from her. Even with a wave from her side-parted hair falling across her brow and shielding her a little, she felt their gazes burning her cheek.
Shame on them. They should be respectfully listening to the man.
Shame on me. I’m the one who should be listening instead of judging others.
Amens sounded from around the table, proving Axel had been paying more attention to the prayer than she had.
Heat sprang to Sorena’s face when she raised her head and found both men still staring at her. She snatched the nearest serving bowl and spooned some sauerkraut onto Shimon’s plate, then passed it on and accepted the platter of potato pancakes from her host.
“Shimon,” their hostess began, her stern features softening. “I brought the sausage up from the cellar just this morning. It was made from ground goose, not pork, so I do believe everything on the table is kosher.”
“Thank you,” he said, diving in. “I’m very hungry.”
“And you, Mr. Axel,” the older woman said, a jovial smile lighting her face, “I must say, your appearance has improved considerably from when you first walked in.”
Axel matched her smile with an easy one of his own. “I do apologize if I tracked any dried mud onto your spotless floor.”
Sorena tuned out the woman’s next gushing remarks. Apparently Axel’s practiced charm had completely won the old gal over. Instead, Sorena kept filling her own plate and Shimon’s. But once the food had made the rounds, she was obliged to politely chew and swallow her meal across from the two entirely too attractive younger men … who seemed to be sharing some private joke. She made a point of concentrating only on her eating.
“Knud and I were talking upstairs,” Axel said out of the blue, directing his comment to her.
Knowing she’d started at the sound of his voice, Sorena gathered her composure and settled back in her chair. “And?”
“He’s agreed to take the crates of rag dolls I have in the trunk of my car into Copenhagen this afternoon along with his milk deliveries.”
“Dolls?” Axel certainly didn’t look like a doll vendor. She arched her brows. “Don’t you think we have more important matters to attend than selling your merchandise?”
He studied her a moment, then glanced around the table, his expression sober. “What I’m about to say cannot leave this room. That merchandise, as you call it, happens to be dolls that were smuggled into this country from America. They’re stuffed with money and occasional donated valuables to help finance the escape of Jewish refugees. Considering the events of last night, even you can see they’re needed now more than ever. And since I can no longer deliver them personally …”
Sorena flinched. He’d put her in her place. Royally. Perhaps she deserved it, always thinking the worst of him when in reality she knew next to nothing about the man. What had he done since she’d crossed his path except try to help her and Shimon, endangering himself in the process? Being rich and heartstoppingly gorgeous didn’t automatically make him callous and superficial. She cringed just thinking of her judgmental attitude.
The farmer’s wife leaned forward. “What about the risk to our son? He goes through checkpoints on his way in and out of the city, you know. The last thing we need is to draw undue attention from the Gestapo.”
“We thought about that,” Axel answered earnestly. “We’ll remove the funds from several dolls on top of the lot. Give the empty ones to the guards if they’re interested. Knud will tell them you’ve been working on them in your spare time to sell during the Christmas holidays.”
Her rail-thin husband kneaded his whiskered chin. “Sounds believable to me.”
“Yes,” his son said from beside Axel, taking on a self-important air. “And when I hand the dolls over to Axel’s contact, I’ll have the fellow arrange transport for our three guests across the sound to Sweden.” His gaze reached past the table and held Sorena’s, and he hiked a brow as if she were on the menu. “Unless you’d like to stay behind. I’m sure we could keep you busy and out of harm’s way right here on the farm.” An unmistakable gleam sparked in his blue eyes.
“That’s true,” Axel said thoughtfully. “There’s no reason for the young lady to make that journey. I’d be happy to escort Shimon the rest of the way. Right, buddy?”
The comment stung Sorena. He wasn’t missing his chance to rid himself of her.
“Of course,” Axel went on, giving the boy a playful wink, “you’ll need to carry a doll or two along.”
Shimon stiffened. “Who, me? I’m not carrying a sissy doll.”
“And I’m not deserting Shimon,” Sorena announced, glowering at Axel. She then turned to the farmer’s son. “I thank you and your family for that most generous offer, but I promised Shimon’s mother I’d keep him safe, and I cannot and will not renege on something so vital.”
The farmer’s wife placed a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “You’re a decent, hardworking girl. No one can fault you for standing by your promise.”
Kind words for sure. But Sorena had a strong suspicion that the woman would be more than grateful to see the last of the three fugitives. Life would be much safer for this farm family without any strange faces around.
And Axel? He’d be far happier if she stayed.
Chapter 5
Soon after the noon meal, Knud left for Copenhagen, his old gray farm truck loaded with canisters of rich milk. Axel immediately made himself useful by volunteering to do chores around the dairy. As the afternoon dwindled, his latest task consisted of raking out cow stalls and laying fresh straw … anything to stay busy and keep away from Sorena. For some reason, he felt a strong attraction to her—freckles, sassy mouth, and all. Aware of a strong personal tendency toward competitiveness, he was pretty sure Knud’s interest in her was what had piqued his own.
“That has to be it,” he muttered as he leaned the pitchfork against the wall and strode out of the barn, brushing straw from his borrowed work clothes. He glanced down the road toward the city and stretched a kink out of his back. It was nearing dusk, and the farmer’s son had yet to return. So many things could have gone wrong. Or, he surmised, Knud may have been delayed merely by waiting for Underground Resistance contact Johann Zahle to organize an escape plan for Axel and his charges.
Cowbel
ls clanged across a deep stretch of pasture, and Axel saw the seasoned dairy farmer and Shimon bringing in the herd for milking. He grimaced. More work to be done. Peering toward the road again, he hoped to discover the man’s strapping son and his two toughened hands coming to help.
But the chore of milking a score of cows was almost finished before Axel detected the rumble of the truck and the clatter of empty galvanized cans bouncing in its bed. As he’d been instructed earlier, he stripped the last of the creamy liquid from a brown Jersey he’d been milking and hurried out to hear how the young man had fared.
Uneven light from the house and barn blended with the truck’s headlamps as Knud hopped down from the running board, a pleased expression on his ruddy face.
Axel exhaled a breath of pent-up worry and went to intercept him.
“I have good—” Knud stopped talking mid-sentence when the back door squeaked shut, revealing Sorena.
She appeared almost mysterious, even beautiful, the way the light and shadow played across her feminine features as she approached them warily. “Yes? Finish what you were saying.” Her tone had lost last night’s demanding quality and now sounded merely eager.
Knud grinned. “The dolls are delivered.” He moved closer to her like a moth drawn to flame, then stopped and looked back at Axel. “You were right about the sentries. When I told them my mother makes dolls to sell for the Christmas season, they weren’t the least suspicious. Of the eight we emptied of money before I left, only one remains. The guards bought the others to send home to Germany for their own children.”
“And Johann?” Axel asked. “Did you find him okay? Talk to him?”
“That I did, and I gave him the dolls and the leftover money.” The dairyman glanced again at Sorena and visibly sighed. “I’ll tell you all the details. But first I have to hose out the cans for tomorrow’s milk.”
“I’ll help,” Axel blurted. After the hour he’d just spent in the barn with those smelly bovines, perhaps the spray would wash off some of the stench.
A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Page 42