The next day Dimitri and I returned to Hovedbanegård. Buoyed by our success of intimidating Ingrid, I wanted to forget our letdown with the little old lady and savor revisiting the site of Alexei’s accident. That accident was the best decision in my life. Should an opportunity arise to take another such action . . .
“Did the police take over last night while we slept?” Dimitri asked as we sidestepped disembarking passengers.
“My father must be putting pressure on them. He probably refuses to believe Alexei would be so clumsy as to step off a train platform.”
Dimitri smirked. “Alexei The Graceful. So graceful he never got chosen for a soccer team.”
“His feet never touched the ground when he walked.”
We guffawed, searching for prey like young lions. No more old ladies. An ancient man looked like a possibility, but an out-of-breath, portly matron ran up to him, put her arm across his shoulders, and apologized profusely for her lateness.
Two for one, I telegraphed Dimitri.
He nodded his agreement.
We sidled forward and nearly crashed head-on with our targets. As we advanced, they turned to leave the station. Again, the woman apologized, taking full blame for not looking where she was going, taking her purse off her elbow, opening it, muttering the least she could do was buy us ice cream—in the middle of a snowstorm—for being such polite boys.
“I noticed.” She removed a krone she rolled over her index finger. “I saw the two of you as I was fighting my way through this mob. You were watching out for my uncle. So many people discombobulated you, didn’t they, Uncle?” Without waiting for Uncle to reply, she rushed on, “It was about this time a week ago that poor young man fell on the tracks, you remember. So many people. You know another passenger pushed him. In such a hurry, never realized he’d bumped that poor, unfortunate boy. That’s what he was. A boy. Seventeen, I read. I told Uncle to be extra vigilant, so I am grateful for your concern. Tak, tak, tak.”
By the third thank you, I was ready to shove her backwards over the edge; but she handed me the rolled bill, talking non-stop. “It’s really too cold for ice cream, but a hot chocolate will take the chill off before you board your train.”
Shaking my head, I refused to take the money. “Your thank you is enough, ma’am.”
“I insist.” She stuffed the krone in Dimitri’s coat pocket. “It’s not every day you see boys showing such good manners. Since the war, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
She finally ran down, and Uncle said something unintelligible, and they started for the exit. “Enjoy your chocolate,” she called over her shoulder.
Dimitri and I both said thank you like perfect Danish children. He pulled out the note, unfurled it, and laughed. She’d given us the equivalent of a dollar—not enough to buy a piece of bread with butter. We laughed all the way out of the station. But in between snickers and guffaws, I realized she’d given us something more valuable than money. She cemented the conclusion I’d already reached.
Eyes were everywhere.