started running back toward town before Henrik had finished the sentence. They raced down Stengade—Stone Street—past Helsingor’s huge old church with the tall spires, and past the old brick City Hall. Ahead of Peter, Henrik turned one way to get to his house and waved back without looking. Peter turned the other way onto his narrow street, Axeltorv Street—Axel’s Market Street. This was another one of those times when he was glad he didn’t live far from the harbor.
As Peter rushed past the bakery two doors down from his apartment, the baker, Mr. Clausen, was just locking up for the night. Usually, Peter would have stopped to say hi, but he ran past as fast as he could go.
“Late again, Peter?” called Mr. Clausen, chuckling.
It had been fifteen or twenty minutes down at the harbor, at least. Peter wasn’t sure, but he knew it had definitely been longer than a few minutes. Dinner? How long did Elise say it would be? Ten minutes? Yeah, I’m going to be in trouble. Again.
Peter pushed open the street level door, then took the long, narrow stairway three steps at a time. Out of breath at the top, he was afraid to look over at the table, where everyone was sitting, finishing dinner. Elise gave him one of her “Where were you?” looks. Peter knew he was in deep, hot water. Their mother was the first to say anything after Peter sat down, but it took a minute.
“You heard your sister tell you dinner was ready?” Her small, pretty face—framed by her shoulder length, curly red hair—normally wore a smile. She was a little woman, smaller even than her growing children. Mr. Andersen’s pet name for her was “Spunky Owl,” which doesn’t translate very well from the Danish but which fit her perfectly. Tonight she was not smiling.
“Maybe I didn’t say exactly how long it was to dinner,” Elise piped up, obviously trying to defend her brother. Not a chance.
“I was asking Peter,” said her mother, waiting for Peter’s answer.
He nodded, looking down. “She said it was going to be ready soon.”
“Too bad it’s ice cold now,” said Mr. Andersen, his voice sounding as cold as the food on Peter’s plate. “Finish it and go to your room right away. No staying up tonight.”
Peter nodded again, relieved at the light punishment.
“You know this isn’t the first time,” his mother continued. Peter knew she would say that, too. “What were you investigating this time, a crab or a sailing ship from China?” That wasn’t quite a joke, but Peter hoped it was a sign she was lightening up. Elise sat stiffly in her chair, as if waiting for the storm to pass.
“I was just helping Uncle Morten tie up the boat and bring up the fish,” Peter explained in his best “I’m really sorry I forgot to come to dinner again on time” voice. He knew by the look on his parents’ faces that apologies weren’t going to do much good this time.
He chewed in silence—his mouth full of cold potato. The fish and cabbage were cold, too, but it didn’t matter much. Since the war had begun, everyone’s dinners had gotten plain and cold.
“And your mother didn’t work hard on that food to have you not show up,” added his father. Now Peter was getting it from both sides of the table. Maybe if it was flaeskesteg , the delicious roast pork they used to have before the war, it would be easier to remember and come to dinner on time. No, he didn’t dare say that. His mother couldn’t help it if all she had to buy food with was ration cards, and no one had enough bread, sugar, bacon, butter, or coffee. Mrs. Andersen got the cards every two or three months at a Ration Office; she needed them every time she went to the store. And when they were gone, that was it.
“I’m really sorry, Dad,” said Peter, finishing his glass of water. “I’ll try not to forget again. Really.” He looked up, and both his parents were frowning at him. Elise, who always acted nervous when her brother got into trouble, started
As Peter rushed past the bakery two doors down from his apartment, the baker, Mr. Clausen, was just locking up for the night. Usually, Peter would have stopped to say hi, but he ran past as fast as he could go.
“Late again, Peter?” called Mr. Clausen, chuckling.
It had been fifteen or twenty minutes down at the harbor, at least. Peter wasn’t sure, but he knew it had definitely been longer than a few minutes. Dinner? How long did Elise say it would be? Ten minutes? Yeah, I’m going to be in trouble. Again.
Peter pushed open the street level door, then took the long, narrow stairway three steps at a time. Out of breath at the top, he was afraid to look over at the table, where everyone was sitting, finishing dinner. Elise gave him one of her “Where were you?” looks. Peter knew he was in deep, hot water. Their mother was the first to say anything after Peter sat down, but it took a minute.
“You heard your sister tell you dinner was ready?” Her small, pretty face—framed by her shoulder length, curly red hair—normally wore a smile. She was a little woman, smaller even than her growing children. Mr. Andersen’s pet name for her was “Spunky Owl,” which doesn’t translate very well from the Danish but which fit her perfectly. Tonight she was not smiling.
“Maybe I didn’t say exactly how long it was to dinner,” Elise piped up, obviously trying to defend her brother. Not a chance.
“I was asking Peter,” said her mother, waiting for Peter’s answer.
He nodded, looking down. “She said it was going to be ready soon.”
“Too bad it’s ice cold now,” said Mr. Andersen, his voice sounding as cold as the food on Peter’s plate. “Finish it and go to your room right away. No staying up tonight.”
Peter nodded again, relieved at the light punishment.
“You know this isn’t the first time,” his mother continued. Peter knew she would say that, too. “What were you investigating this time, a crab or a sailing ship from China?” That wasn’t quite a joke, but Peter hoped it was a sign she was lightening up. Elise sat stiffly in her chair, as if waiting for the storm to pass.
“I was just helping Uncle Morten tie up the boat and bring up the fish,” Peter explained in his best “I’m really sorry I forgot to come to dinner again on time” voice. He knew by the look on his parents’ faces that apologies weren’t going to do much good this time.
He chewed in silence—his mouth full of cold potato. The fish and cabbage were cold, too, but it didn’t matter much. Since the war had begun, everyone’s dinners had gotten plain and cold.
“And your mother didn’t work hard on that food to have you not show up,” added his father. Now Peter was getting it from both sides of the table. Maybe if it was flaeskesteg , the delicious roast pork they used to have before the war, it would be easier to remember and come to dinner on time. No, he didn’t dare say that. His mother couldn’t help it if all she had to buy food with was ration cards, and no one had enough bread, sugar, bacon, butter, or coffee. Mrs. Andersen got the cards every two or three months at a Ration Office; she needed them every time she went to the store. And when they were gone, that was it.
“I’m really sorry, Dad,” said Peter, finishing his glass of water. “I’ll try not to forget again. Really.” He looked up, and both his parents were frowning at him. Elise, who always acted nervous when her brother got into trouble, started
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