August 1944

“Laura? We have guests.” Father’s voice rises up through the stairwell. She hides Family Journal under the pillow, straightens her hair, and hurries downstairs. Who could it be? The evening sun shines through the window of her parents’ bedroom, warm and red. The soft call of a blackbird rises and falls through the gardens. It is almost time for her daily trip to the cellar.

On the landing, she looks down, stops suddenly. A pair of long black boots is waiting just inside the door, the brim of a black cap.

“Welcome. It’s been too long.” Father and Arno shake hands.

What is he doing here?

“It is an honour to be received in your home!” Arno slides the cap under his arm and stands at attention.

“Come down here, my girl.” Father motions for her to come downstairs. The steps glide away beneath her. The black uniform, the boots float up toward her. She doesn’t want to, and yet she must. Arno holds out his hand. She sees herself from the outside, watches as she places her hand in his and lets him help her down the last steps.

If he’s come for Jack . . . She doesn’t want to finish the thought. She takes the final step, looks down, and curtsies deeply. She can be nice. For Jack.

“I’ve made coffee.” Mother wrings her hands, then shows Arno into the living room. Father places a hand on Laura’s shoulder, steers her after him. Arno smells of leather oil and horse. There are sweat stains on the collar of his uniform. His long neck is white as a sheet from the collar up to the short strands of hair peeking out at the edge of the black cap.

Now they are sitting on the sofa beside each other, Father in the chair opposite them. And outside in the garden, the evening is so beautiful that it hurts. Mother pours coffee and offers Arno the tray with the war macaroons, the ones she baked for Jack in the morning. It’s so quiet, the few sounds grow. Arno champs the milled barley oats with lateral movements of his jaw; his boots squeak. Father breathes with a quiet whistling.

She breaks a little piece of the war macaroon on her plate. The slightly nauseating taste of the cake grows in her mouth; she hurries to swallow before she has to throw up. She hopes Jack is sleeping down there, that he doesn’t hear Arno dragging his boots across the living room floor.

“The rumours say the resistance will attempt to sabotage the weapons factory in Ordrup.” Arno smiles. “But they will fail, as they failed with the labour strikes last month.”

Father and Arno stare at each other for a long time. She holds her breath. Good God, it’s over now. In a moment, they’ll be pounding on the door, then forcing their way inside with their dogs and guns. Then Father smiles. He shakes his head and wipes his mouth.

“Laura? You’re not saying anything? You’ve been so distant. Are you keeping secrets?” Father’s still smiling at her. But his gaze stings, burns into her. She can’t catch her breath. All those things that can’t be said. Everything they mustn’t touch upon. The little fish is doing somersaults behind her navel; she can almost hear Jack groaning in the cellar below.

Arno takes off his cap, turns it in his hands, then places it on the sofa between them.

“Laura.” He grabs her with his cold, clammy hands. “I have work to do now, for Denmark. For you.”

Father leans back in the chair, satisfied. Everything has been turned upside down, out of joint. What are they up to?

“Come.” Arno gets up, attempting to pull her up with him. “It’s a beautiful evening. Let’s go outside.”

She doesn’t want to go, her knees are shaking. But Arno has a firm hold and she is forced to her feet. Father and Arno. And Jack trapped in the cellar. She can’t go on, it’s too much. She breaks away, dashes up the stairs, and hides under the blanket in her small room in the attic while Arno and her parents call from downstairs.

When Arno has left, Father forbids her to take food down to Jack. He has to manage as best as he can, he says. With her head buried in her pillow, she cries herself to sleep.