Our little group was numb with shock. There was no heart left in any of us. The Beilins’ grief was terrible to witness. Anton was sobbing and I did not know how to comfort him. We carried on because there was nothing else to do. I’d so wanted to be a brave man but I felt like a hopeless little boy. Down by the beach we found the stone barn and led our friends inside. Now someone needed to go down and signal to the fisherman who was coming. Uncle Johann wanted to go and look for the boat himself but he didn’t look well. He still wore the bandages on his head from his fight with Papa, and I think the whole thing with Thomas and Gilda had shaken him badly.
“Let me go, Uncle,” I pleaded. “I’m smaller than you. I can hide more easily. You stay and look after them here.”
In the end he agreed—mainly, I think, because Mrs. Beilin was desperate for him not to leave. To be honest I was happier out in the wind and rain. The terrible emotions everyone was feeling were too much to bear.
Outside, the weather had turned even rougher. The wind whipped around the barn, and out to sea I could see great white peaks on the water. I had been told to wait on the beach until I saw the fishing boat arrive. Then I was to collect the others and run out onto the bathing pier, where a dinghy would be waiting to take everyone the last hundred meters to their rescue vessel.
I ducked down behind a sand dune and waited. My ears strained against the wind as I tried desperately to listen for the sound of the boat’s engine. At last I thought I heard a slight throbbing sound and I looked up. There was someone on the pier. I felt paralyzed with fear. It was so dark I couldn’t even make out whether it was a man or a woman, but he or she seemed to be fiddling with the rescue dinghy. I had to do something. Finally, angry and exhausted after everything that had happened, I stood up and pulled Orlando’s gun from the waistband of my trousers. Shaking with fear, I approached the person on the pier. Maybe Mama had been right about Chekhov, and you couldn’t carry a gun without having to fire it.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” I called, trying to make my voice sound as grown-up as possible. The person put up his or her hands and slowly turned toward me.
“Now, Bamse, why would you shoot your own brother?”
It was Orlando. I couldn’t believe it. It was Orlando! We threw ourselves at each other, hugging and dancing around in that terrible weather. He looked just the same but older. He had a beard now and his hair was shaggy. He ruffled my own hair and said, “Maybe you had better give me the gun, baby brother.” Then he grabbed my arm. “Listen!” We stopped still. In the distance we could just hear the soft chugging of the boat engine.
“The dinghy is no good,” called Orlando over the wind. “It’s full of holes and the boat will never get near the pier in this weather. We’ll have to find something else. Come on.”
We raced off up the beach and past the barn and headed toward the village. At last we saw a rowboat in someone’s garden. It had been nicely painted and was now used for flowers. Without a moment’s hesitation Orlando began throwing the earth and flowers out of the small boat. I wondered if we should have asked, but he was in a hurry, so I jumped in and starting scooping earth out too. At last it was empty and we managed to haul the boat upside down. We picked up one end each and proceeded up the road with it on our heads. It was a heavy old wooden thing and I was really struggling but nothing on earth would have made me tell my brother that. Neither one of us could see very well where we were going, which is why we bumped straight into the local policeman.
“Hello, boys. Where do you think you are going?”
Orlando looked at the man. “Are you a good Dane?” he asked.
Taken aback, the policeman replied, “Well, yes.” “The n help us carry this wretched boat.” Without a moment’s pause the good Danish policeman picked up one end of the rowboat and off we went again.
We got everyone from the barn into the boat. Anton and I stood on the pier for a moment and looked at each other.
“Good luck, Anton,” I said.
“Thank you, Bamse. I’ll send you some chewing gum.”
We hugged each other. I tried to persuade Orlando to go to Sweden with them. He had done so much for the resistance and would not get off lightly if the Gestapo caught him, but he shook his head.
“There is no rest until the last Jew leaves Denmark in safety. We must go back to Copenhagen and make sure no one is left behind.”
Orlando and the policeman rowed our friends out to the waiting fishing boat: Mr. and Mrs. Beilin, my best friend Anton, and Mr. and Mrs. Isak, heading for Sweden. I could hear Mr. Isak chanting a quiet prayer from the Psalms. Uncle Johann was exhausted. He sank down on his knees on the pier and he too began to pray quietly. I had never seen such a big man look so humbled.
Out on the water, there were German patrol boats and bombs in the water to negotiate. N o one was safe yet.