A tall, haughty man of thirty in a well-cut suit of oatmeal tweed, Peter was Axel’s son. Before the quarrel between the families, he had been best friends with Harald’s brother Arne, and in their teens they had been known as ladykillers, Arne seducing girls with his wicked charm and Peter by his cool sophistication. Peter now lived in Copenhagen but had come home for the holiday weekend, Harald assumed.

Peter was reading Reality. He looked up from the paper to see Harald. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“Hello, Peter, I came to get some water.”

“I suppose this rag is yours?”

Harald touched his pocket and realized with consternation that the newspaper must have fallen out when he reached down for the bucket.

Peter saw the movement and understood its meaning. “Obviously it is,” he said. “Are you aware that you could go to jail just for having it in your possession?”

The talk of jail was not an empty threat: Peter was a police detective. Harald said, “Everyone reads it in the city.” He made himself sound defiant, but in fact he was a little scared: Peter was mean enough to arrest him.

“This is not Copenhagen,” Peter intoned solemnly.

Harald knew that Peter would love the chance to disgrace an Olufsen. Yet he was hesitating. Harald thought he knew why. “You’ll look a fool if you arrest a schoolboy on Sande for doing something half the population does openly. Especially when everyone finds out you’ve got a grudge against my father.”

Peter was visibly torn between the desire to humiliate Harald and the fear of being laughed at. “No one is entitled to break the law,” he said.

“Whose law-ours, or the Germans’?”

“The law is the law.”

Harald felt more confident. Peter would not be arguing so defensively if he intended to make an arrest. “You only say that because your father makes so much money giving Nazis a good time at his hotel.”