A Way Through the Sea Read online

  At that, Uncle Morten leaned up against the pilothouse, threw back his head, and laughed, big.

  “What’s so funny?” Peter asked, suddenly feeling dumb. It wasn’t that strange a question, but his uncle just kept laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said, catching his breath. “No, it’s really not a strange or funny question.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Peter was regretting that he had opened his big mouth.

  “Really, I didn’t mean anything,” Uncle Morten said. “I’m sorry to laugh. It’s just that Arne, I mean your father, asked me exactly the same question, in exactly those words, when I told him I had become a Christian.”

  “Was that before you and Grandpa took me to that prayer meeting?”

  “You remember that?” He smiled. “Good. I wasn’t ever sure if we scared you off or something, because you didn’t say anything about it afterward. But anyway, yes, it was just a couple of months before that meeting when I committed my life to Jesus.”

  “Oh,” said Peter. “Well, that makes sense... kind of.” Of course, he had always considered himself a Christian, too. He was baptized when he was a baby, like everyone else he knew, except Henrik. Peter figured that if anyone had a chance at getting to heaven, he probably did, too. No murders or robberies on his record.

  “Kind of?” asked Uncle Morten. “It didn’t make sense to me for a long time. Almost all my life, in fact. I thought I was a Christian way before that.”

  “But you weren’t? How could you tell?”

  “Listen,” said Uncle Morten. He pulled off his gloves and looked straight at Peter. “I don’t want to sound preachy to you, and that’s why I’ve never told you this before. But since you asked, maybe this is the right time.” He paused for a second, watching for Peter’s reaction.

  “I’m listening, Uncle Morten,” he said. It was his turn to be nervous, but now there was no longer any question. He wanted to hear the rest of the story.

  “Okay, then, here’s what happened: I met this guy, Knud Kvist, another fisherman, and there was something very different about him. He went to this little church I’m going to now. I ended up asking him about the same questions you’re asking me now. Basically, he told me that I wasn’t a Christian because I went to church once in a while, or because I was baptized, or because I believed in God, or not even because I did the right things most of the time.”

  “So what’s left?” Peter went down the list in his head, trying to think of anything that was missing. He couldn’t think of anything.

  Uncle Morten grinned. “Kvist told me that to follow Jesus—to become a Christian—we need to confess our sins and surrender our whole selves to Christ. Becoming a Christian means realizing that you can’t get to heaven by being good. So that’s my sermon. Does that make sense?”

  Peter nodded, doing his best to take it all in. “It makes sense.”

  Peter didn’t have time to think about it much more, though, because it was time for Uncle Morten to turn back to his net, and they were hauling in a pretty big load. That kept the two busy for the next hour, and then it was time to head back. Uncle Morten let Peter take the wheel again, and he tried to keep a straight course back to Helsingor Harbor.

  “Keep the steeple straight ahead,” said Uncle Morten.

  “No problem,” said Peter. It was still clear and beautiful, but an afternoon chop had picked up. With the wind from behind, the waves scooted under the boat and tossed it around more than earlier in the day. All the things Peter’s uncle had told him felt like waves, too, knocking his head silly. He had heard it all before, but somehow it had never registered. What if Uncle Morten is right about this Jesus thing?

  “You’re all over the place, Peter,” said Uncle Morten, interrupting Peter’s thoughts. He had been zigzagging. Morten put his big hand on the wheel to help straighten them out.

  “Sorry,” said Peter, lining up on his bearing again. But he was still thinking. Uncle Morten said I haven’t really been a Christian all this time. At least, I think that’s what he was saying....

  Peter tried to keep his attention on steering, on the waves. A larger wave slipped under the boat just then, and he held on tight to keep from falling over. He was thinking, thinking hard, but still doing pretty well at steering a straight course back to the harbor. Just so he doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. This isn’t what I came on the fishing boat to find out about.

  Before Uncle Morten could say anything else, Peter handed him the wheel and escaped out onto the breezy deck. Maybe he could think better out there, he thought, without embarrassing himself.

  It took a few minutes, but Peter’s heart slowly settled down. The spray in his face from an occasional wandering wave even felt good. Cold, but good. That’s better. He got as far back as he could on the rear deck of the boat and watched the seagulls behind and above. “Lucky bird,” he told one that glided closer to the boat than the rest. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”

  He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He felt a hard bread crust in his right pocket, forgotten there a long time ago. For the birds. Picking out a seagull, Peter leaned over the edge of the boat and heaved the bread crust as hard as he could.

  It all happened in an instant. Peter grabbed for something—anything—but only came up with air. The next moment he was coughing on ice cold salt water, thrashing around, panicky. Only when his head popped up again above the water did Peter realize what was going on, and by that time the fishing boat was already well out of reach.

  “Uncle Morten!” he tried to yell, but he was still choking on seawater. His jacket and pants billowed up around him, and it was hard to stay on top of the green waves. The cold made him instantly numb, squeezing the breath out of him.

  “Uncle Morten! Hey! HEY!” Is he just going to sail off without me? Peter waved with one hand, paddled with the other, and yelled as loudly as he could. There’s no way he can hear me. Peter panicked, swallowed a salty wave, gagged and spit. The boat was still moving away fast. His best hope now, he thought, would just be to stay afloat as long as he could. Uncle Morten couldn’t get far before he would notice Peter was gone. But he would probably have to start stripping off his shoes; his coat was already off. Anything to make it easier to stay up. Don’t panic, he told himself. Then his teeth started chattering, and he couldn’t stop shivering.

  He was just unlacing his shoes, bobbing down underwater, coming up for air, when he saw the Anna Marie. She was heading straight at Peter, full speed, waves spraying out in front. A moment later two big hands pulled Peter over the rail. He kneeled on the deck, dripping and gasping.

  “Take that wet stuff off,” ordered Uncle Morten with a no nonsense voice. Peter obeyed, his teeth still chattering and his body shaking all over from the cold. His uncle pulled out a blanket and a big parka from underneath a seat and wrapped him snuggly. Inside the pilothouse, out of the wind, he started to warm up again.

  “I saw you standing back there one minute, and the next second you were gone,” said the fisherman, steering once again toward home. “You couldn’t have been in the water for more than a minute or two before I pulled around and got you.”

  “A minute or two?” asked Peter. “It seemed more like an hour. I just panicked when I saw the boat sailing away from me.” It was easier to describe now that he was getting warm and dry, or mostly dry.

  “So if you wanted to go swimming, you should have told me, Peter.” Then he got serious. “Really, though, if you want to go out again, you’re going to have to be extra careful around that railing.”

  Peter nodded and shivered, feeling as if he had almost died. Then he remembered what he had been thinking about when he fell overboard.

  “Warming up?” Uncle Morten’s question interrupted his thoughts.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I think there’s an old pair of work clothes under there where I got the blanket. See if you can find them. They won’t fit you very well, and they probably smell pretty
bad, but it’s better than walking home in just a blanket.”

  Peter nodded, then found a pair of grease stained pants and a ripped gray shirt under a cork life jacket. They were big—way big—but he put them on. Better than wet clothes for sure. After a few minutes, he started to warm back up.

  Uncle Morten kept his course and looked over at Peter. “About what I said earlier, Peter, I’ll say one more thing, and then I won’t preach at you anymore.” Peter looked up at him, but didn’t say anything. “If you really want to follow Jesus, it’s your move. All you have to do is tell Him so. I won’t ever bug you about it.”

  “Thanks,” Peter managed to mumble as his uncle kept the boat on course through the waves. He wasn’t quite sure what to think anymore. It all made sense, but.... He sat on the seat over the life jacket box in the corner of the wheelhouse, his knees pulled up to his chest under the huge shirt, and the parka wrapped around his shoulders. He closed his eyes, listened to all the sounds, felt the boat rock. Before Peter knew what was happening, his head was nodding, and he was asleep.

  When Peter woke up, the boat had stopped rocking. He sat up with a jerk, trying to figure out where he was. A fisherman friend of Uncle Morten’s was tying up the front end of the boat, but Peter couldn’t see his uncle.

  “Hey, sailor, we’re back.” There he was, poking his head into the wheelhouse.

  “Oh,” said Peter, still a little groggy. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Yeah, you really conked out. Must have been all that swimming.” Then he looked around for a moment. “Why don’t you just go ahead; I have plenty of help here unloading. Besides, you’d trip over yourself in those old clothes.” He chuckled. “They’re a little big for me, too. I don’t know where I got them.”

  Peter looked down at himself. The shirt was twice as big as he was, and the only way the big pants stayed on was with a cord wrapped two times around. But he had to laugh, too, it looked so silly.

  “Well, okay. But I feel pretty stupid walking through town like this. I hope nobody sees me.”

  “Up to you, Peter. You could change back into your salty, wet clothes.” Peter shuddered at the thought but considered it. “Tell your mom and dad that I’ll be by in about forty five minutes. I’ll explain to them what happened when you fell in.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Morten. You saved my life.”

  “Well, hardly,” he smiled. “We’re still working on that.”

  Peter shivered, thinking again about his wet clothes that had wrapped around him like seaweed, about the numbing cold water, and about everything his uncle had told him that afternoon. With his wet clothes rolled up and tucked under his arm, Peter jumped down onto the dock and ran toward home.

  Home for Dinner

  8

  As the pigeon flies, it was only about six city blocks from the harbor to the Andersen home. Eight to Henrik’s apartment above the little bookstore on Star Street. First Peter had to check in with the birds, though. He poked his head in the door of the shed and counted: One, two, three, four, five.... All there. He knew Number Two would make it back just fine.

  Now he had to find a quick way home, without being seen by anyone. He tried a few back streets, smaller ones like Mountain Street and Stone Street. It was getting dark, he thought, so maybe no one would see him there. At least he didn’t hear anybody laugh yet, but a couple of boys on their bikes—older teenagers—gave him a good stare. I look like some kind of hobo. Down Rose Spring Street, past the red brick City Hall with its tall tower and large entryway, around the corner, and Peter was home.

  He almost made it to his room, but Elise caught him in the hallway. “So, Peter, who designed your new wardrobe? No, really, it’s kind of cute, and the color matches—"

  Peter slipped into his room and slammed the door. Sisters.

  Even though Peter was glad his uncle came by for dinner and explained what happened, Elise still kept grinning the whole time. It was a funny story, but maybe not that funny.

  “Hey, don’t laugh,” he growled at her. “That water was cold.”

  “But how long were you in the ocean?” asked Mrs. Andersen. She seemed the most concerned, even after Uncle Morten had explained to everybody that he had turned right around and picked up Peter within minutes.

  “Really, not long,” Uncle Morten explained. He tried again to make everyone understand that it wasn’t such a big thing. “It only took me a moment to realize Peter had flipped off the back end, and...”

  “But how did you get so tipsy, Peter?” asked Elise. At this point, Peter hated having to explain himself.

  “I told you,” he said again. “I had some bread, and I was just throwing it to the seagulls.” That was enough to send off another round of giggles.

  “Speaking of birds,” said Elise, looking more serious. “Henrik and I were down at the boathouse when Number Two came back, at two thirty. We got the message you sent. Henrik said to tell you he got it, if he didn’t see you first.”

  “Oh, great,” said Peter. “I was going to stop by his house, but I wanted to get straight home instead.”

  “Because of your outfit, right?” She started to giggle again.

  “Come on, Elise. I’m fine.”

  But he wasn’t... not really. All the rest of that evening, Peter would feel himself shivering again. He kept thinking about what Uncle Morten had said to him. Stop shaking, he told himself as he got ready for bed around eight thirty.

  “Going to bed so early?” his mom asked. “Are you sure you’re all right, after that dunking?” She walked over and put her hand on Peter’s forehead. He ducked, but she stayed with him.

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

  “Well, it’s been a long day for you,” she said, “and there’s no school tomorrow. You just get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  Peter almost told her that he felt strange, but there was no reason to get her more worried than she already was. I’ll feel better in the morning.

  He lay awake in bed, listening to everyone else in the apartment. Ten minutes went by. Twenty. An hour. So much for getting a good night’s sleep. Maybe he couldn’t sleep because of the nap he’d had on the boat. He rolled over, pulled up the covers, twitched and scratched. He tried counting pigeons. But no matter what he did, his uncle’s voice kept playing over and over again in his head. “If you really want to follow Jesus, it’s your move.”

  He put his pillow over his head, trying to make the thoughts go away, but, of course, they wouldn’t. It’s my move. Finally he fell into a restless sleep.

  Rosh Hashanah

  9

  “One thing for sure,” Henrik announced as he and Peter were washing up for dinner at the Melchiors’ apartment later that week. He had a little trouble doing it one handed, his left arm still in a cast. But he managed all right. It was Thursday night, a school night, and somehow Peter’s mom and dad had allowed him to eat over at Henrik’s home. Maybe because it was a special Jewish holiday for the Melchiors, and Peter had been invited as the guest of honor. Peter was even going to be able to stay the night, which he didn’t understand at all because it wasn’t even a weekend. But both their moms had agreed over the phone, so he wasn’t going to argue. It was kind of like the way Peter’s grandfather had arranged for him to go out on the fishing boat. Strange, but okay.

  “One thing for sure,” Henrik repeated as they sat down at the small dinner table in one corner of the apartment. “We can’t let the dumb old war stop the Great Danish Pigeon Race.”

  “Oh?” Henrik’s dad had just sat down. His mother was bringing steaming dishes of food to the table, and the four of them were ready. “You had better explain that to me after we say the blessing.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Melchior looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife. They were both short and a little dark, at least darker than most other Danes. Mr. Melchior had a crop of thin black hair, cut short around his ears. Luckily, Mrs. Melchior had a lot more hair than
that, though it was the same color. Henrik said once that his great grandparents had come to Denmark from Portugal, which was why his family looked the way they did.

  Mr. Melchior began the blessing. This wasn’t an ordinary night for Henrik and his parents, and it wasn’t an ordinary meal. It was, for Jewish families, the first day of the New Year celebration, called Rosh Hashanah. Henrik had said that this dinner was the first celebration in a ten day period that went all the way to something called Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. Peter was surprised they had invited him. He had never been to anything like this in the years since the Melchiors had moved to town.

  The guest of honor didn’t know exactly what was going on, so he just watched. Mr. Melchior looked at Peter, and Peter felt like a tourist visiting the Kronborg Castle for the first time. Henrik’s dad was going to show him a place he had never been before, full of history and stories of people he had never met.

  “This is the Kaddish, or blessing, that we say before having the wine,” explained Mr. Melchior. He held up a sparkling glass with a long, thick stem, and the ruby red wine sloshed around in it. “Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.”

  After he had said that, Mrs. Melchior passed a plate to him, and he put down the glass for a minute. On the plate was a large loaf of bread—all braided. Then the tour guide looked at Peter again.

  “This is a special Jewish bread,” he explained, “called hallah. It’s braided and made into a big, round hat shape. A crown. It reminds us of the King.” Then he continued with his blessing.

  “Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”