by Susan Wiggs
“What do you know about this picture?” she asked Isabel.
“Not a thing.” Leaning in for a closer look, Isabel said, “The young boy looks like Grandfather. He had that smile all his life. So did...Erik. Our father. Yes, that’s what he looked like as a boy, too.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tess murmured. Unlike Isabel, she hadn’t been privy to any of this. “Who do you suppose the older guy is in this picture?”
“That, I couldn’t tell you. Either his father or grandfather, I’d guess. He looks so formal and distinguished. And that room. I wonder if they decorated like that just for Christmas, or all the time.”
Tess studied the photo even more closely, focusing on an item in the curio cabinet at the edge of the shot. She recognized some vases that looked like French crystal from the 1920s, alongside china figurines and other collectibles common to the era. But there was something else in the room’s opulent clutter. Amid the figurines and glassware was a largish, garishly decorated egg on a footed stand. Most likely it was a common replica of a Fabergé egg.
But every instinct she possessed was urging her to find out exactly what she was looking at. Her gaze went to the tiny alabaster angel they’d found in Eva’s box, then back to the egg in the photo.
“Tess?” Isabel peered at her. “Is something the matter?”
“Yes. Or, no. I mean, this piece in the photo might be...” She stopped herself. Her idea was going to sound crazy, and, worse, it might get Isabel’s hopes up for no reason.
“Go on.”
“It might be worth checking out.”
“Worth it...in what way?”
Tess ignored the question. “Do you mind if I take it out of the frame?” she asked Isabel.
“No, not at all.”
“I’ll be careful.” She took a small flat-headed screwdriver from her bag. Catching Isabel’s expression, she said, “I carry a lot of tools for work.” She carefully pried back the little hinged fasteners from the back of the frame. Then she lifted out the back and set it aside. A thick piece of cardboard was next; it appeared to be from a cracker or cookie box in Danish. Slipped behind the yellowing print, between a sheet of vellum and the backing of the picture frame, she found a letter, handwritten in Cyrillic characters on linen stationery.
It was as if a cold finger suddenly touched the base of her spine. “Do you know anything about this?” she asked Isabel.
“No. I’ve never seen it before. The photo, or that...whatever that is.”
“A letter. It’s written in Russian. At least I think it’s Russian. Would you happen to know any Russian speakers?”
“Not offhand,” Isabel said.
“I do,” said Tess. “My mother. Who refuses to return my calls.”
“I’m sorry,” said Isabel.
“Don’t be. You’d think by now I’d be used to it.”
Isabel indicated the letter. “What do you think it could mean?”
“I’ll need to look into it. I think it might be significant.” She decided to level with Isabel. “Okay, this is going to sound completely crazy, but this whole situation is crazy. That ornament on display could be a Fabergé egg.”
“And a Fabergé egg is valuable,” Isabel said.
Beyond your wildest dreams, thought Tess. “Assuming it’s authentic. And assuming your grandfather is in possession of it.”
Isabel looked around the piled shelves and crammed drawers. “That’s a big assumption.”
The back of the photograph had something written on it in fountain ink, the color fading to amber. “This is in Danish,” said Tess. “You wouldn’t happen to know any Danish, would you?”
“Actually...” Isabel frowned down at the words. “Julen 1940, lige før Farfar blev taget af Gestapo.”
Hearing her sister reading the words with fluency reminded Tess that the two of them were still such strangers. Isabel had been raised by people Tess had never had a chance to meet.
The final word, however, was recognizable in any language: Gestapo...1940. Tess didn’t understand the rest, yet the very blood in her veins felt chilly. She was swept by a sense of sadness and fear, regarding the happy boy—Magnus—and the older man, having no clue about the tragedy that was probably about to strike. She knew the Nazis had occupied Denmark during World War II, and that although the Danes had protested, they had officially submitted to the occupation. She wondered what had become of that happy household and all its little treasures.
She turned to Isabel, whose soft eyes were damp with tears. “A sense of loss is the worst feeling, isn’t it?” asked Isabel. “It’s so...futile to think about things we can never get back.”
“Can you tell me what it means?” asked Tess.
Isabel nodded. “This says Christmas 1940, just before Farfar—that’s Grandfather—was taken by the Gestapo.”
Part Seven
Proclamation! To the Danish Soldiers and the People of Denmark!... [I]t is to be expected that the...Danish people show good will and not demonstrate any passive or active resistance against the German army. It would be futile and it would be stopped by any means necessary...The people are encouraged to continue their daily work and to ensure peace and order! For the security of the country against British assaults, control will accede to the German army and navy.
—Excerpt from a leaflet dropped from a German aircraft bomber, 9 April 1940. The text, in poorly translated Danish and Norwegian, is believed to have been written by Adolf Hitler.
JULEKAKE
Julekake means Yule Cake or Christmas Cake. Every Scandinavian family has their favorite version, usually baked by Mor Mor (Grandmother), who is always present, even if she’s passed on. This cake should never be prepared alone. Stand beside someone you love as you cut the citron into chunks and blend it with the flour, cardamom, fruits, butter, eggs, yeast and sugar. The scent of cardamom will fill you with nostalgia as the aroma of baking fills the house.
Moist and tender, topped with gjetost (Scandinavian goat cheese) and a pat of butter, this is the holiday treat we wait all year for.
Turn on the oven for 10 minutes at 150 degrees F, then shut it off but keep the door closed. This is where you’ll set the dough to rise.
Use a big wide mixing bowl to blend together:
5 cups white flour
1 tablespoon cardamom
2 cups candied fruit and citron
11/2 cups raisins
In a pan, blend:
2 cups milk, scalded (can be done on the stove or in the microwave)
1 cup sugar, dissolved in the scalded milk
1 cup butter, melted in the scalded milk
Cool to lukewarm. Combine a little of the milk with:
1 packet active dry yeast
When dissolved, add it to the rest of the milk mixture. Then add everything to the flour mixture to make a soft dough. Add enough flour to create a pliable dough that doesn’t stick to the sides of the bowl. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead further.
Place in a buttered bowl and turn it over once, so the oiled side is up. Place a dish towel over the top, and set the bowl in the warm oven for a half hour to 45 minutes. Punch down and knead again. This time, separate the dough into two loaves or rounds. Cover with a dish towel again, and let it rise once more for a half hour to 45 minutes.
Once risen, bake in a 400 degree oven for 30-40 minutes. Place a piece of foil over the tops after about 25 minutes if it gets too dark.
Source: Adapted from Christmas Customs Around the World by Herbert H. Wernecke (1959)
Eleven
Copenhagen 1940
The camera flash left Magnus momentarily blinded, and a slight burn of sulfur lingered in the air. But he knew in the picture, he would be smiling from ear to ear, because magic was about to happen. It was the best time of year, a time of secrets and good things to eat and families gathering close—especially now.
Farfar squeezed his shoulder and gazed fondly down at Magnus. “There, it is official,” his gra
ndfather said. “Our Christmas portrait is done, so the festivities can begin.”
“Assuming you didn’t break the camera,” said Uncle Sweet, working the crank on the side of the box. Uncle Sweet was not really Magnus’s uncle at all. They just gave out that story for the sake of appearances. In reality, Sweet was Jewish, and the Johansens were hiding him and his daughter, Eva, in plain sight. Their real name was Salomon, and they were in big trouble, thanks to Sweet’s wife.
The wife was extremely pretty and had huge breasts that made her look like a pinup girl so popular in American magazines. She liked fine wine and pretty things, and because he’d fallen on hard times, Sweet couldn’t give her much. Last year when she had caught the eye of the German marshal at an Oktoberfest dance, she had gone waltzing off with the soldier and never looked back at the family she’d left behind—the husband destroyed by her betrayal, and the adorable, bewildered little girl. The betrayal of Sweet’s wife was even more injurious, given the fact that she would embrace the very ones who wanted to eliminate her people from existence.
The Nazi death camps were rumors no more, but grim fact. The underground newspapers were full of eyewitness reports of people who had seen these places just over the border—Theresienstadt, Neuengamme, Bergen-Belsen, Sachsenhausen—where prisoners were forced to work and starve in the freezing cold and were summarily executed for the smallest infractions. When Magnus thought of Eva, he could not get his mind around the Nazis’ idea that her race of people were some kind of menace to humanity. All he saw was a little girl with nothing but goodness and hope in her heart, even in the face of the notion that her mother had abandoned the family and her father was a broken man.
“We can’t all be as pretty as you,” Papa said, coming into the room with a tray laden with mugs—hot malted cream with cardamom for Magnus and Eva, and apple cordial for the grown-ups.
“I’ll partake later,” said Uncle Sweet. “I’m going to take this down to the basement and develop the film to make some prints. They’ll have to be my gift to you this year since the damn Nazis have made it impossible to have a proper holiday in Copenhagen anymore.”
Magnus took a swallow of his malted cream and pretended he could taste real chocolate. The last time he had tasted chocolate was perhaps three years ago, but he had never forgotten the smooth flavor, as dark as night.
“Language, Sweet,” said Magnus’s mother, arriving with a plate full of homemade biscuits. She didn’t scold him too harshly about his talk these days. Magnus suspected this was because Mama shared Uncle Sweet’s opinion about the Nazis. Yet despite the shortages and rationing, she had managed to turn out the most delicious biscuits Magnus had ever tasted. They were redolent of butter, which Mrs. Gundersen up the hill traded for apples from the family orchard.
Uncle Sweet made a great show of fanning himself and swooning as he ate a biscuit. “Language,” he said, “is nothing but a bunch of words, and there are no words to express how wonderful this cookie is. I swear, if you were not already married, I would have you locked in a workroom like Rumpelstiltskin’s daughter, forced to bake for me all day.” He stole another biscuit from the platter and headed for the basement, lighting his way with an oil lamp. No one ever asked where his photographic chemicals came from—no one wanted to hold the answer like a piece of stolen fruit.
Mama and Papa went to the settee. Their glasses clinked, and they snuggled together, and the sight of them made Magnus feel warm inside. No matter what the Nazis did as they overran the city, they could not steal the one thing that mattered most—the love shared by a family. Tonight they were celebrating Lille Juleaften—Little Christmas Eve—which turned December twenty-third into a special day. They’d given the house a final cleaning, and everything was ready for the next few days of feasting.
“Let’s finish lighting the candles on the tree,” said Farfar. “You’re plenty old enough to handle that duty, eh?”
“I should say so.” Magnus took a long wooden match and touched it to one of the candles. There were just a dozen this year because of the shortages. It didn’t really matter, though. Thanks to the brown-shirted Nazis, Christmas had to be concealed from the world behind blackout curtains.
Although Magnus couldn’t say so to his grandfather, he had plenty of experience with lighting fires lately. But the less said about that, the better.
Sweet’s little daughter, Eva, came in, all dressed for bed. Fresh from her bath, Eva had that peculiar, scrubbed look that made everyone want to draw her close and protect her. When she saw the lighted tree, her eyes shone like twin stars, and she regarded Magnus as if he had personally invented the element of fire. Eva had never experienced Christmas before, but when Magnus had explained the concept, she was quick and eager to grasp it.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, her eyes shining with wonder. “Farfar, isn’t it beautiful?”
“Not half as beautiful as you, my little flower.” Farfar swept her up in one strong arm and held her so she could inspect the ornaments on the tree. He had embraced the role of foster grandfather to the little girl. “See this pinwheel here?” he asked. “It’s made of celluloid and it belonged to my mother when she was your age.”
“What makes it go round and round?”
“The heat from the candle is just below it,” Magnus said importantly. “Heat creates energy, which makes it twirl around.”
She nodded thoughtfully, as if she understood. “And this one?” she asked, pointing to a little carved ornament. “You made it all by yourself, didn’t you, Magnus?”
“Indeed I did. Farfar let me use his tools.” Magnus was extremely good at carving things. He held the ornament so she could see it. “It’s got a secret inside.” He moved a hidden catch and the small box opened.
The little girl gasped with wonder. Inside the box was a tiny beeswax figure of a dog. “That’s clever, Magnus. Isn’t he clever, Farfar?”
“He certainly is.”
Magnus shut the box and hung it back on the tree. “You’d never know it’s hollow, right?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“What do you want from the nisse this year?” asked Farfar. Earlier, he had regaled Magnus and Eva with stories of the mythical elf. “Remember, that in one magical night, the nisse can grant wishes to boys and girls. Maybe you’ll wish for a baby doll, or a pair of skates?”
Eva turned somber. “My mama. That’s all in the world I want.”
Magnus could see Farfar’s smile stiffen at the edges. They were all keeping a secret from Eva. She was too young to handle the truth.
“The nisse can’t do that sort of magic,” Farfar said.
“What good is he, then?” The little girl’s chin trembled.
“That,” said Farfar, “is a very good question. I must stay up late tomorrow night and ask him.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Her eyes widened.
In spite of himself, Magnus shivered. The nisse was a friendly elf, but it would be strange to meet up with one.
But Eva was a child with a sunny spirit, full of hope. She seemed determined to be happy despite the fact that her mother had abandoned her and her father. When Magnus gave Eva the cup of warm malted cream, she accepted it with a smile that wrapped around his heart.
He looked around the room and felt awash with gratitude. This was the fine essence of life, these moments when a family was together doing the simplest of things. His mother and father went over to the table to drink their cordial and write Christmas greetings to their friends. Farfar showed Eva more ornaments on the tree, embellishing the stories behind them. Uncle Sweet worked in the darkroom, whistling as he brought images to life on his special paper. The recipe for happiness was just so simple, Magnus thought. Yet something about it seemed incredibly fragile, as though it might be shattered at any moment.
“Have I ever told you about the story behind this?” Farfar asked, turning away from the Christmas tree. It was as if he wanted to distract the little girl from dwelling on false promis
es and wishes that couldn’t possibly come true. He opened the curio cabinet against the wall and took out his proudest possession—a jeweled egg on an ornate stand.
Eva seemed happy to allow herself to be distracted. “It’s very pretty.”
“It’s one of my favorite things. Let’s have a look at it.”
Magnus was drawn to the fire, where Farfar and Eva sat. The large, colorful egg was one of Magnus’s favorite things, too, because it was so cleverly made. “It’s got a secret,” he said to Eva. “Can I show her, Farfar?”
“Of course. You know all its secrets.”
Magnus found the cabochon ruby clasp and pushed it in, causing the egg to open.
Eva clapped her hands. “There’s something inside!” She leaned forward to inspect. “It’s an angel. A pretty girl angel.”
Carved of alabaster and embellished with real gold, the figure resembled St. Lucia, with a crown of leaves and a candle held between her hands.
“That’s right,” said Farfar. “She even has a name—Maria. The jeweler created this egg to commemorate her birth. The little girl’s father gave it to me long ago as a token of gratitude.”
“Farfar saved the girl’s life,” Magnus said, beaming with pride at his grandfather. “He’s the best doctor there is.”
“Was the girl sick?” Eva asked.
“Very sick,” said Farfar. “But she was brave and determined to get better. Her parents were so grateful that they gave me the Angel egg and a letter, expressing their thanks.”
“Her father was an important man,” Magnus said. “A rich man.”
“But he knew what all my patients discover, that all the riches in the world are worthless without one’s health.”
“Whatever happened to the little girl?” Eva touched her finger to the angel’s, which was made of gold and abalone.