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hundred, but only just. Rows of seats faced a wooden lectern. There was no altar. The walls were bare except for some framed texts.
    Danes were undogmatic about religion, and most of the nation subscribed to Evangelical Lutheranism. However, the fishing folk of Sande had been converted, a hundred years ago, to a harsher creed. For the last thirty years Harald’s father had kept their faith alight, setting an example of uncompromising puritanism in his own life, stiffening the resolve of his congregation in weekly brimstone sermons, and confronting backsliders personally with the irresistible holiness of his blue-eyed gaze. Despite the example of this blazing conviction, his son was not a believer. Harald went to services whenever he was at home, not wanting to hurt his father’s feelings, but in his heart he dissented. He had not yet made up his mind about religion in general, but he knew he did not believe in a god of petty rules and vengeful punishments.
    As he looked through the window he heard music. His brother Arne was at the piano, playing a jazz tune with a delicate touch. Harald smiled with pleasure. Arne had come home for the holiday. He was amusing and sophisticated, and he would enliven the long weekend at the parsonage.
    Harald walked to the entrance and stepped inside. Without looking around, Arne changed the music seamlessly to a hymn tune. Harald grinned. Arne had heard the door open and thought their father might be coming in. The pastor disapproved of jazz and certainly would not permit it to be played in his church. “It’s only me,” Harald said.
    Arne turned around. He was wearing his brown army uniform. Ten years older than Harald, he was a flying instructor with the Army Aviation Troops, based at the flying school near Copenhagen. The Germans had halted all Danish military activity, and the aircraft were grounded most of the time, but the instructors were allowed to give lessons in gliders.
    â€œSeeing you out of the corner of my eye, I thought you were the old man.” Arne looked Harald up and down fondly. “You look more and more like him.”
    â€œDoes that mean I’ll go bald?”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    â€œI don’t think so. I take after Mother.”
    It was true. Arne had their mother’s thick dark hair and hazel eyes. Harald was fair, like their father, and had also inherited the penetrating blue-eyed stare with which the pastor intimidated his flock. Both Harald and their father were formidably tall, making Arne seem short at an inch under six feet.
    â€œI’ve got something to play you,” Harald said. Arne got off the stool and Harald sat at the piano. “I learned this from a record someone brought to school. You know Mads Kirke?”
    â€œCousin of my colleague Poul.”
    â€œRight. He discovered this American pianist called Clarence Pine Top Smith.” Harald hesitated. “What’s the old man doing at this moment?”
    â€œWriting tomorrow’s sermon.”
    â€œGood.” The piano could not be heard from the parsonage, fifty yards away, and it was unlikely that the pastor would interrupt his preparation to take an idle stroll across to the church, especially in this weather. Harald began to play “Pine Top’s Boogie-Woogie,” and the room filled with the sexy harmonies of the American South. He was an enthusiastic pianist, though his mother said he had a heavy hand. He could not sit still to play, so he stood up, kicking the stool back, knocking it over, and played standing, bending his long frame over the keyboard. He made more mistakes this way, but they did not seem to matter as long as he kept up the compulsive rhythm. He banged out the last chord and said in English, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” just as Pine Top did on the record.
    Arne laughed. “Not bad!”
    â€œYou should hear the original.”
    â€œCome and stand in the