A Way Through the Sea (3 page)

By then Peter’s father had come shuffling out again, yawning and scratching his weekend stubble of beard. He was a tall man, and his sandy hair always stood straight up when he first got out of bed. He sat down at the table with the boys to his own bowl of oatmeal.

“Ouch,” he cried, fanning his mouth. “That bite went down a little too quickly.”

“You’re as bad as the boys,” scolded his wife. “Now all of you, slow down. It’s not a race.”

That’s exactly what it was, but Peter didn’t say that to his mother. Henrik was already scooting his chair out from the table, and he would be down the stairs, two at a time, in a second.

“Thanks so much for the breakfast, Mrs. Andersen.” At least he sounded polite, even if he did eat and run. Peter ran after him, down to where the family’s bikes were parked just inside the door at the foot of the stairs. There was a small, dark courtyard behind another door that opened to the street. The door slammed behind them, and the two boys were out on the narrow street, wheeling their way through the lifting fog. The race was finally going to happen.

The old city sat by the ocean as if it belonged there, and it had, for hundreds of years. Ancient, leaning brick buildings huddled over the tiny streets, streets that all seemed to run down to the harbor. They were paved with bumpy old cobblestones, the kind that made the boys’ teeth chatter when they rode over them. But it was only three turns and a couple of blocks before they made it to the main road leading out of town, Saint Anne’s Street. It was fairly easy pedaling from there, and there weren’t any cars on the road—only a few trucks, four gray German army cars, and a delivery van or two. Everyone else cycled, like Henrik and Peter, mainly because regular people hadn’t been allowed to use their cars since the war started.

Before they got far, though, Peter noticed the bird basket on the back of Henrik’s bike starting to wiggle. It was coming loose from where he had tied it onto the rack.

“Hey, Henrik,” Peter called up to him. His friend was about five bike lengths ahead and picking up speed. “The basket is coming loose, Henrik!”

But Henrik didn’t hear, so Peter pedaled faster, trying to catch up. His rubber hose of a tire only flapped harder, though, and he had a terrible time just keeping up.
Dumb rubber hose. When are we going to get real tires again?

The hoses were awful substitutes for real bicycle tires, but Peter had gotten used to them. Ever since the war had started, and even a little before that, no one in the whole country could get new tires for anything. The German war machine seemed to gobble up everything made of rubber, so when things wore out—like the tires—Peter and his family had to make do with homemade tires. Mr. Andersen came up with the idea of sewing together the ends of a rubber hose with heavy twine and a sailmaker’s needle. And it worked, kind of. Peter’s Uncle Morten, a fisherman, came up with the idea to use soft, heavy rope, braided together around the tire rim. Both inventions looked pretty silly, but it was better than riding on the rims, even though no one could go as fast on the pretend tires.

Peter would have liked to go a little faster. If Henrik didn’t stop real soon, or at least turn around to check on the basket, the birds were going to take a tumble.

“Henrik, hey, Henrik!” Peter shouted. But by then Henrik was out of sight around a corner and pulling away.
Sometimes I could just strangle him, if only I could catch up.

“Where are you going so fast?” came a voice right behind Peter. Startled, he almost swerved off the street, which only made Henrik laugh and laugh.

“Hey, real funny.” Peter slowed down. “Where did you come from, anyway? I was just trying to catch up to tell you that the basket was falling off.”

“Really?” Henrik sounded surprised, then stopped at the curb. While he had circled around through an alleyway, the basket had loosened even more. Somehow it was still hanging on. Both boys looked in through the birds’ square air hole, and the two pigeons were quietly holding on in the bottom of the basket. Peter tied the basket a little tighter, and they started down the road again.

“Only this time, Henrik, slow down, would you?”

“Sorry.”

Peter wasn’t sure, but Henrik sounded as if he meant it. The old city was soon behind them as they pedaled up the coast. Off to the right, in the distance, was the ocean. It’s never far from anywhere in Denmark. Peter could still see patches of fog here and there, but mostly there was blue sky now, and the sun seemed to brighten everything more each minute. Still, his hands were numb from the cold morning air rushing past the handlebars of his black bike. He gave them turns in his coat jacket, which helped a little. And even though Henrik had slowed down, Peter still had trouble keeping up. Henrik looked back over his shoulder once in a while, checking to see that Peter was still there.

“Can’t you go any faster, old man?” called Henrik.

“Hey, show off,” Peter replied. “I’ve been keeping it slow so you wouldn’t burn out your Olympic muscles.” He may not have been as fast as Henrik on a bicycle, but he could keep pace with his teasing any day.

“We’re almost there,” Henrik yelled back, ignoring Peter’s last remark. They were heading straight for the water now, and on the left was the large old Marienlyst Hotel, a local landmark. The place was known for its swimming beach, a gambling casino, and the great views of Sweden, just across the Sound. It was a big, beautiful building, full of history, and the boys liked to bike out here for the ride. It seemed so far away from their home in the city, even though it wasn’t really a long bike ride away.

Henrik was waiting on the steps of the grand old hotel as Peter pedaled up. He had taken his map out of his knapsack and was studying it. They both could find their way around this part of Denmark with their eyes closed, but Henrik always brought a map along anyway.

“Here’s how I figure it,” he said, holding the map close to his face. “If we let the birds go here, they’ll both go straight back to the boathouse, like this.” He traced his finger across the map, straight across the old city and over to the other side. “We’ll let them both go on the count of three.”

“Wait a minute,” Peter interrupted. “If we do that, they’ll both fly together, and they’ll just keep close to each other. We won’t find out which bird is faster that way.”

Henrik looked up, disgusted. “Why didn’t we think of that before?” he asked. “I’ll bet the Brain would have known if she had been here.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Peter. “But let’s think of a way to get them far enough away from each other so they fly by themselves. It still has to be fair.”

They looked around, trying to figure out a way.

“Look,” said Peter, pointing to a big rock down by the beach. “If you took your bird way down there, then we could still both let them go at the same time.”

“No, it’ll never work,” Henrik said after a minute. “They’ll catch up to each other and then just fly together.”

Peter knew he was right. The birds did have a way of finding each other, even when they were flying blocks away. Then a light went on in his head, and he remembered something.

“I’ve got it!” said Peter, pounding Henrik on the shoulder. “We’ll just give one of the birds a handicap. Yeah, that’s perfect!”

Henrik wrinkled his nose and squinted. That was his “I don’t get it” look.

“A handicap?” he asked. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. You mean, like tying a rock to its legs?”

“Not a physical handicap, silly.” Peter was enjoying having the good idea for once. Maybe it was because his sister wasn’t along. She was usually the one who figured out all the secret plans and things like that. “All we do is let one of the pigeons fly, just like we planned. But we hold on to the other one, and then—like five minutes later—we let the other one go. Then when we get back, we just use a little math and figure out which one came back the fastest. Not too complicated at all.”

Peter folded his arms, sure that he had a great idea. Actually, he remembered reading about it in a pigeon racing book called
Pigeon Racing for a Hobby
by Victor something.

“Your sister will know?”

“Sure she will. Besides, I told her to write down the time the birds come in. I think she’ll write it down for both of them.” He didn’t want to admit it to Henrik, but Elise was the one who had shown him the book a few months ago and explained the whole idea first.

“Oh, I get it,” said Henrik. “If Number One gets back first, and then Number Two gets back in less than five minutes...”

“Number Two wins.”

“And if it takes exactly five minutes for Number Two to get back...”

“It’s a tie,” said Peter. “But that won’t happen.”

“No, well, then if it takes
more
than five minutes for Number Two to show up, which it will...”

“Number One would win,” finished Peter, “but for sure that won’t happen.”

“Right.” Henrik scratched his chin, thinking. “Well, maybe there’s another way to do it.”

They both stood there for a minute, not saying anything, thinking some more. Peter was going over the five minute part again, making sure his math was right.

“You have any better ideas?” Peter finally asked.

“No. But the only problem is, neither of us has a watch to time the birds with.”

“No problem,” said Peter, pointing up at the hotel. “In there.”

There was a large grandfather clock behind the counter in the wood paneled lobby, perfect for what they needed. A lot of these kinds of inns had a big clock out front. The clerk behind the counter looked at the boys with his eyebrows raised, probably wondering why two eleven year olds would come into his hotel to stare down the hour.

“Pigeon race,” said Henrik, as if that would explain everything. He was holding the wicker basket with both birds under his arm. “Is that clock right?”

“Last time I set it,” replied the man, looking at his own wristwatch to check. He was probably as old as Peter’s grandfather, and even looked a lot like him, with little puffs of gray hair around his ears and a friendly expression in his eyes. “Can I help you boys with something?”

“We have to let one of the birds go at exactly eight o’clock,” explained Peter. “And then the next one will go five minutes later.”

“Birds?” asked the innkeeper, eyeing the basket under Henrik’s arm.

Peter nodded.
Maybe he’s never seen homing pigeons like ours before.

“Oh, yeah,” said Henrik. “Homing pigeons. We’re racing them back home to Helsingor.”

“Oh,” the man nodded. “Like they used to use in the last war for sending secret messages.” He looked interested enough, probably as long as they didn’t let the pigeons go in his hotel. “That was before they had radios, the way we have today. Soldiers would send their messages back and forth with these birds, just the same way you’re doing now. Of course,” he continued his story, “for your sake, I’m glad there aren’t any German soldiers nosing around the hotel this morning.”

“Yeah?” Henrik asked. “Why? The birds aren’t illegal, are they?”

“Illegal, no,” said the man. Then he lowered his voice, as if he were telling them some kind of secret. “But those Germans are always asking questions, and whenever they start asking questions, the rest of us get into trouble. There’s no use getting into trouble over something like your pets there. If you boys know what I mean.”

Peter didn’t know what he meant, not quite.
The birds? Illegal?
Henrik and Peter just stood there and stared at the innkeeper. Henrik’s eyes were big, as if he was thinking about what the man had just said.

“Well, come on, boys,” said the man, looking down the hall at a guest. “Let’s launch those birds and see what happens.”

Peter looked through the lobby out the front door. Henrik put down the basket, propped the door open with a rock, and walked out carefully with Number One in his hands. A minute until eight. At the first bong of the clock, Peter waved his hand, and Henrik tossed the bird into the air. Peter and the innkeeper trotted out as Number One circled briefly over the hotel roof, around the gardens and the beach, and then headed straight back down the coast. Peter could hear his wings whistling. The bird would be home in just a few minutes.

“How much do you want to bet Number One is the first one back to the coop?” Henrik said as the three of them walked back into the empty lobby. Suddenly a green uniformed German soldier walked up behind Henrik. He must have just come around from the other side of the building. Henrik nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw who was right behind him.

“Excuse me, please,” said the grim faced soldier. He didn’t seem much older than twenty or so, blond and crew cut. He walked in as if he didn’t know his way around very well, stepped past Henrik, and went right to the counter. He looked impatiently at the old man, drumming his fingers on the big walnut counter as he spoke in a mixture of broken Danish and German. Peter strained to understand the conversation, something about getting directions, or trying to find out about the best way to get to Gilleleje, a popular spot for tourists up the coast.
What’s he saying?

The old innkeeper, now behind the counter, only returned an icy stare. “Sorry,” he said in Danish. “I don’t think I follow what you’re saying.” He made no attempt to slow down to let the soldier understand better; instead, he was talking as quickly as he could. “My German is pretty rusty.”

They went back and forth like that for almost a minute. The soldier frowned, waved his arms, and tried to mix in a little more Danish. The innkeeper didn’t slow down for a second, doing his best to frustrate the young soldier. Any other time it would have been almost funny for Henrik and Peter to watch. This time, though, they slipped out the door into the sunshine.

“Wow,” said Peter. “You almost jumped through the ceiling when he came up on you like that. I think we better get out of here.”

Instead, Henrik looked straight back at his friend, and his eyebrows clamped down on his forehead. “No way!” he said. “We didn’t come all this way to only let one bird go.”