Will Solace, all of seventeen, watched, a guitar in his arms, as the usual transfer of patrolling Nazis made the switch on the end of the street. They had been here since the occupation began in 1940, and for the most part, the mood had been cordial and cold, as if they were skittering on thin ice—but that was just how it went, they were still afloat, not yet descended. 1943, however, was bringing about a different mood; he could feel it even then, something bubbling just underneath that hard surface of crusted stars, something waiting to burst out of the river.
Will sighed and ran down the steps. His guitar was slung across his back as he dashed out into the pale early morning sun. He waited near the end of the street—by a florist's, where delicate roses stood alongside vibrant tiger lilies, wrapped lovingly in cellophane or spilling out of rusting tin buckets—for his friend Michael, who he usually went off to school with. As he waited, something caught his eye; a harsh red V dashed a wall opposite him. It was the symbol of victory, painted no doubt, by the hands of the newly active Resistance group that he had heard about from his mother's radio, and it made him grin.
"What the hell are you happy about?" Michael asked, his hair blowing back in the breeze as he appeared. Will pointed at the V and Michael gave a chuckle, his eyebrows rising. "The bastards must be pissed about this." He finished smugly.
Will nodded. "They didn't seem at all happy from what I saw just now."
Michael's eyes sparked in mischief, "Hey, hand me the guitar, yeah?"
Will raised his eyebrows but removed the instrument and Michael grabbed it—can you not just do that to her?—and began to strum familiar notes that he had not heard in years.
"The anthem?" Will asked, torn between wanting to chortle and wanting to stop his friend. But Michael was already strumming the first few notes, his lips pursed with the agony of trying not to laugh, so Will pitched in, singing the first words.
Der er et yndigt land
det står med brede bøge
nær salten østerstrand
Det bugter sig i bakke, dal
det hedder gamle Danmar
kog det er Frejas sal
There is a lovely land
with spreading, shady beeches
Near salty eastern beach
Its hills and valleys gently fall
its ancient name is Denmark
And it is Freya's hall
"OI!" An angry burst of German followed from around the corner. Will grabbed the guitar from Michael, and still laughing, they sped down the street.
-x-
When they finished school, a wrapped pastry in their fingers, they could sense something amiss about the atmosphere; the cobwebs that Will had felt skating around the ice seemed to be running deeper. They passed the synagogue on their way to Will's house and they saw the rabbi standing outside, his withered face crumpled in despair. Will nudged Michael who shrugged in confusion. The old man went back inside the building.
Will bade goodbye to Michael and went up the narrow steps that led to his flat. His mother, Ms Sorenson—she had refused, eventually, to take his father's name when the man had left her without preamble to go back to his home country, Britain—was sitting at the table again, fiddling with the radio.
"You've got to be careful with that," Will cautioned, putting down one of the pastries in front of her. "The Nazis seemed to be extra pissed off today; have you heard about the V down the—"
"Yes," she said, "But something's happened." Her voice was tight and Will stiffened.
"Yeah?"
"You know how they've left us mostly alone?" She asked, peeling the wrapper off the pastry and sliding it onto a plate, "We're not so lucky anymore." The butter knife sliced cleanly through the crust, flakes falling onto the plate "They're coming for the Jews, Will."
"What—take them away to the East?" The boy asked, frowning in disbelief. "That can't happen here, will it? We won't let it happen—"
His mother sighed, offering the plate to him; he declined. "Who knows what will happen?"
Will bit his lip, troubled, "No wonder the Rabbi just now…" He tried for a smile at his mother, "I'm going off to meet Michael."
"Be home in time for curfew."
"Of course." He said, already to the door.
-x-
They were sitting on the bridge that tapered off the end of the little town, about a ten minute walk from the last building; it led off into the growling forest, the trees the deepest shade of emerald that seemed to embrace black.
"It's not going to happen," Michael said confidently, tossing a gnarled twig into the river and watching it get rushed up by the twinkling water. "You worry way too much."
"Sorry!" Will put his hands up in mock surrender, "But it's just that… anything can happen, y'know?" He paused, uncertain, "You're the one who should be worried."
"Not here, not in Denmark." The piece of wood had appeared on the other side of the bridge, the currents drawing it downstream and eventually, to the sea.
"Not in Demark." Will mimicked, and Michael glared at him.
-x-
Michael and Will were reaching Will's place when they saw Ms Sorenson, the ends of her nightgown flapping in the wind, a look of worry plastered on her face.
"Thank God." She said when Will approached and grabbed his arm. "I was hoping Michael would be with you; get on up to the house, the both of you."
"I've got to get back to my family, miss—" Michael began but Will's mother cut him off.
"They're all up here." She said urgently, "Quickly now." Michael looked at Will, who shrugged.
They all ascended the staircase, feeling the clammy grip of dread and confusion settle over them. The narrow and steep steps were shrouded in evening darkness. Ms Sorenson pushed the door open and led them into the tiny living room.
"When you were out," she began, striding over to the one rectangular, slim window—the only source of soft deep blue light in the whole dark room—and peering out. "We decided to take in some of the Jewish families, to hide them. We're doing it in shifts so that the Nazis won't be so suspicious." She crossed over to where Michael was standing, looking both enraged and sick. "You're family's with us, in the storeroom. Hurry now, Will and I will push a bookcase over the door so they won't see."
Michael and Will exchanged a glance and Michael walked over to the tiny door. Crouched together within the room was his family- his mother greeted him with a hug and his two twin sisters clamoured in joy.
"Thank you," Mrs Yew said, an arm of Michael's shoulder.
"Don't mention it." Ms Sorenson said, "You would have done exactly the same. Now we have to move—"
"Of course."
She shut the door behind her and looked at Will, who went over to the bookcase and started pushing it over the door. They moved it into place until the door could no longer be seen.
Will, the news finally beginning to settle in, asked, "How long…"
"A resistance group is coming to the forest in two days to help them escape to Sweden." His mother said and a barrage of coughs erupted out of the door, slightly muffled. "One of the girls is having a bit of a cough."
Will nodded, both frightened and exhilarated, and grabbed his guitar and began to strum a few chords to dissipate the tense silence. His mother sat at the table, plucking at a bit of leftover pastry.
Presently, a knock at the door jolted them and Ms Sorenson paled and made her way to get it. "I'll do it." Will offered and opened the door to face two impassive looking Nazis.
"Good evening," his mother said, coming to stand by him, "Isn't it a bit late to come calling?"
"Routine check-up." One of them said, smiling apologetically; a polished name tag on his coat read Memner.
They swept into the kitchen and despite everything, Will had to bite down a laugh that threatened to escape him when Memner began to inspect the pastry.
"What are you looking for?" He asked innocently, which was, of course, the best way to assure others that you were anything but innocent.
Memner, now on to the living room, refused to answer, saying instead, "Do you have any idea of the whereabouts about your neighbours, the Yews?"
Ms Sorenson shrugged delicately, "They might be asleep."
Memner gave a wry laugh and went to the direction of the storeroom. Remembering the coughing bout that Michael's sister had, Will hurriedly picked up the guitar once again and went in with the officers, playing a reedy tune. The officer cast him an irritated look but he persisted. He and his mother watched with bated breath as Memner put a hand to the bookcase, pressing his calloused fingers slightly against the gnarled wood. The room itself seemed to heave with terrified silence until the officer removed his hand and nodded to the other.
"Thank you for your time, Ms Sorenson," he said politely, "We are sorry to intrude. May the remainder of your evening be pleasant."
His mother smiled and held the door open for them, "Anytime, officer. Glad to be of service."
The door was shut and mother and son looked at each other in relief, the gauzy curtains fluttering with the breeze.
-x-
All the Jewish families in the tiny town, much to the anger of the occupying powers, had gone into hiding. The town had rallied behind them, taking the threat to them personally, collectively. Finally the day came to get them to the forest, where little boats would be waiting to ferry them to neutral Sweden, to safety. They would be going in shifts through the night.
Michael's family, the last shift, was being brought by Will and another girl, Kayla—a member of the resistance prior to this—to the forest.
"Keep silent." The girl said warned as reached the end of the town, beginning to cross the bridge. "You're the last group and we don't want to ruin anything."
Michael opened his mouth to retort but a glance from his mother silenced him. He settled on making gestures behind Kayla's back.
The bridge was lit up by a gentle slice from the yellowish crescent moon, the water slowly undulating as gracefully as court dancers.
Michael and Will were making up the rear of the group, glancing behind them at short intervals to make sure they weren't being followed. Halfway across the bridge, just as they were beginning to feel relieved, angry shouts and the barking of dogs shocked them into the realisation that they were being followed; Memner was amongst the Nazis who had approached, harsh slats of light from torches lighting up their faces.
"Hurry!" Kayla commanded as she helped one of Michael's sisters across the bridge. "Don't just fucking stand there!" She commanded to the two boys, "Hurry!"
"Let's go!" Will said but Michael stood there, indecisive. The dogs had been left behind, but the soldiers had come onto the bridge, their boots clacking noisily against the stone.
"They'll follow us!" Michael said urgently, "They'll get my family; and they won't be the only ones waiting for the boat to Sweden. We'll be putting a whole bunch of people in danger!"
"Stop there, Jewish scum!" They heard Memner shout; Memner, Memner who could only see Michael in his fury, Memner who had politely apologised to Will's mother for interrupting their night-time silence. His face was alive with hatred. The man would blame this escapade on the Jews, and the Jews alone.
"Michael!" Mrs Yew shouted, an arm draped over her daughters, "Michael, Will, hurry up!"
Michael put a hand to his pocket, pulling out what Will knew to be a bomb.
"Where the hell did you—"
"I stole it off Kayla." He said, his voice determined, "Get out, I'm going to blow up this bridge, it will give you time." He fiddled with the thing, the guards coming closer and closer-
"Shit." Michael said, his voice soft, "I'll have to be here when it activates… It's one of those…"
Understanding fell over Will like a blanket of sleet, "No." He said, shaking his head, the shouting coming closer. "I'm not going to let you."
"Like hell I ever needed your permission, Solace," Michael said, his voice set, only slightly choked. "Now get on with it!" He finished, and rushed at Will, heaving him off the bridge. Will dangled, at the edge, one hand clutching the railing, but Michael, his eyes shining and glazed, prised his fingers off, "We know how to swim, remember? My father taught us, before—"
"Michael, don't."
"I have to." The boy whispered, and Will made to reply—
But then he fell into the cool embrace of the water, his head spinning. He paddled furiously to get to the surface, ribbons of bubbles billowing around him. He pulled himself up to the banks just as the bridge exploded behind him, lighting up the night in fierce breaths of kaleidoscopic yellows and oranges. He shifted quickly to avoid a chunk of burning marble. His head felt like it was exploding too, his mind echoing with a tirade of no no no no no no no please please no.
He still clung to a vague hope, but Michael had been at the heart of the blast, there would have been no way.
And then Kayla, her face shocked, was pulling him up from the ground, his clothes sticking to him. He heard Mrs Yew's hollow gasps of contained grief and disbelief.
"He—he sacrificed himself for us." Will said, still unbelieving, "We have to go. Let's—let's go." The spiralling in his skull had stopped, replaced by a numbness of knowledge. Everything was pristinely, brilliantly clear.
He grabbed the hand of one of Michael's sisters, who was very silent, and pulled her along, keeping the pain bubbling in his ribcage contained because he knew that he had to do this, to keep be strong enough to reign in the grief, so that Michael's death would have not been for nothing.
Leaving the smoking bridge and marble shards behind them, they ran into the cool embrace of the forest; twigs and stones creaked underneath their feet, the crackly noise making up for the deep quiet. Behind him, Mrs Yew was supporting one of her daughters and he knew that she was keeping herself intact for their sake. There was nothing behind them but the ghost of silence; Michael had been right in saying that it would take them much time to recover.
Finally, the edge of the trees crumbled off into grainy rock that met a silvery expanse of water. A boat, with a lamp of fluorescent white light shimmering underneath of layer of fog at its head, was waiting for them. A man was waiting there as well.
"Thought you said there'd be five?" He asked Kayla, who shook her head mournfully.
"We… we lost one."
Will bent to hug Mrs Yew, her arms tight. "Thank you." She said as she let go. "And tell your mother thank you."
"It was Michael," he said staunchly, the lapping of water against the pebbles calming him. "It was Michael."
"We have a saying in Hebrew, used in mourning," the lady said as she embraced Kayla, her daughters already on board the vessel, "translated it is, 'tell me what your loved one was really like'. Not the end, but the beginning; not the death, but the life." She smiled, her lips twisted with both the bitter and the sweet. "We will return, hopefully." She brushed the tears that were beginning to pool out of Will's eyes—that despite his hardest effort he could not keep back—even though her own eyes were wet, because she was above all, Mother.
She got on the boat a well, swaying a little with the rocking motion.
Will and Kayla held up a hand to bid them goodbye and they watched as the boat drifted, slowly at first, and then picking up speed, towards the wide river where safety would greet them on the other side. There would be no persecution, no danger. It was what Michael would have wanted.
They watched the blinking white light fade into the heavy fog before they turned back to the Danish forest, still mist-clutched and cold. They entered, silently like the elves of the old stories, pine needles brushing gently against their cheeks.