Countrymen

by Bo Lidegaard

  The analysis was that the Nazi takeover in Berlin was due not least to the fact that the Nazis had successfully made Nazism synonymous with Germany’s recovery from World War I’s human and social disasters, and with overcoming the humiliating terms the victorious powers had forced upon Germany at the Versailles conference. By mobilizing patriotism in its favor, the Nazi Party harnessed a great national force and legitimized its taking control of society’s institutions. Danish politicians wanted at all costs to avoid something similar in Denmark. The strategy was to reverse the mechanism in order to mobilize patriotic forces in Denmark for the defense of democracy. It would also deprive the Danish Nazi Party of the ability to portray itself as a patriotic alternative to a “weak” and “indecisive” democratic government.

  Following this logic, the Social Democratic Party from 1933 deliberately began, in their political rhetoric, to link “the Danish” with “the democratic”—using the two synonymously. Hence, to be a good, patriotic Dane was tantamount to resisting totalitarian ideas and defending representative government, democracy, and humanism. The Social Democrats argued that the patriotic political platform was too forceful to be left to the extreme Right, and their strategy gradually forced both the Conservatives and the Farmers’ Party, the leading opposition parties, to confront anti-parliamentary forces within their own political movements.

  The question of the Jews fitted precisely within such thinking. Despite the careful appeasement of Nazi Germany, it soon became clear to the Danish government that here was a line it would not and could not cross: If Denmark embarked on a differentiation between Jews and other Danish citizens, it would be betraying a fundamental pillar of its democracy—and thus of what was “Danish.” As the government saw it, there was no “Jewish question” in Denmark. All talk of such a question originated with people who wanted to create a problem—and for a specific purpose. To be sure, prejudice against Jews appeared from time to time in Denmark, as did outright anti-Semitism. But the more discrimination and persecution of Jews became endemic in Germany, the more strongly the Danish government reacted to prevent racism from taking root in Denmark.

  The government cooperated with the democratic opposition in rejecting all attempts to bring anti-Semitism into political life or to make it generally acceptable to refer to a “Jewish problem.” Thus in March 1938, when the Conservative MP Victor Pürschel, who had overt Nazi sympathies, pointed out during a parliamentary debate that “Denmark is, after all, the Danish fatherland, and it is we who have the first right to be here,” the remark provoked a strong response. Mercilessly stripping bare the emptiness of Pürschel’s rhetoric, the speaker for the Social Democrats succeeded in enlarging the perspective to demonstrate that, contrary to defending good Danish values, Pürschel was “in the process of injecting anti-Semitism and the cloven hoof of Nazism into the political debate.” Pürschel’s motion was defeated and the common front against Nazism reinforced.

  After Kristallnacht on November 9, 1938, when violence against the Jews was systematized in Germany, Justice Minister Karl Kristian Steincke introduced a specific statutory provision that addressed “Whoever by spreading false rumors or accusations pursues or incites hatred against a group of the Danish population because of its faith, descent, or nationality.” When the opposition threw the necessity of this “Jewish law” into doubt, the minister of justice cited from the rostrum Hitler’s Mein Kampf as well as Dr. Goebbels’s explicit denunciation of democracy: “You cannot say that you have not been warned, or that you do not know what it is about,” Steincke pointed out, arguing in favor of making racism illegal. His proposal was adopted, and hence the criminal code effectively banned anti-Semitic propaganda in Denmark, not only up to the German invasion but, remarkably, also during the occupation.1

  Closing the Door on Refugees

  Until 1937 Jewish refugees as well as other foreigners could freely enter Denmark and stay up to three months if they were able to support themselves or knew someone who could support them. Permits could be extended without particular difficulties as long as they were not filed as an application for permanent residence or a work permit—which generally were rejected, even for people who had stayed in the country for a long time. From 1937, when persecution of the Jews in Germany was intensified, Denmark, like most of Germany’s other neighbors, tightened its procedures as Jewish refugees were stopped at the border. The few who still got in had only a short time to find another residence. Overall the main purpose of Danish refugee policy from 1933 to 1938 was to prevent Jews and other refugees from taking up permanent residence in the country—and from the summer of 1938 to prevent them from getting in at all. It succeeded to a great extent, and few of the persecuted found safe haven in Denmark. But there were loopholes, and despite the restrictions more than five thousand German refugees arrived. A little less than half of these were still in the country when Denmark was occupied, including some fifteen hundred Jewish refugees. Among them were 265 children aged fourteen to sixteen, known as the Aliyah-children, and 377 young Jews seeking agricultural education as part of a Zionist movement for later immigration to Palestine.

  The government’s restrictive immigration policy is sometimes interpreted as a response to fear of growing anti-Semitism and Nazi advances in Denmark. This did play a role, and was also behind the support for the policy from Jewish organizations in Denmark, which followed a pattern familiar from other countries bordering Nazi Germany. Discussions in the Foreign Policy Committee of the Danish parliament after Kristallnacht revealed “agreement that it would be unfortunate if the admission of refugees formed the basis for anti-Semitism.” Probably more compelling was the simple fact that the politicians, in a socially turbulent time, did not want any influx of refugees who were socially exposed. It was fundamentally an issue of the social order, and the politicians utterly opposed the entry of anyone they didn’t believe could be self-supporting and who they feared would further increase the country’s already catastrophically high unemployment.

  Over time a more convenient argument was developed to support the ever-more-restrictive immigration policies: The refugee problem had to find its solution somewhere else. Denmark was not unwilling to provide financial support for such an endeavor—for example in a “safe zone” if any country would make one available. It sounded nice, but it did not help the many refugees who were desperately seeking a way out of Nazi Germany, which was actively “encouraging” the emigration of its Jewish population.

  Thus there was not much room in Denmark for either Jews or others fleeing the Nazis. The government had long since given up trying to counter the ominous developments south of the border and concentrated solely on the survival of the Danish nation. Steincke summarized the paradox in April 1937: “One does not want to be inhumane, and one dares not be humane because of the consequences.” This policy was reflected in the Jewish community, which, under the strong pressure of the situation, backed up the restrictive refugee policy of the government and never openly committed itself to support the minority of activists who sought admission for numbers of German and Austrian Jews to Denmark. The community took a few discreet initiatives with charities that might mitigate the German and Austrian Jews’ circumstances, just as they sought to provide work permits to the Jewish refugees who had already come to Denmark, so that in the long run they were not left to be supported by financial assistance from the community’s better-established members.

  In response to the growing Jewish refugee problem in Europe, thirty-two countries met at a conference held in Évian-les-Bains in July 1938, on the initiative of U.S. president Franklin D. Roosevelt. All agreed that something urgently had to be done—and that preferably this something should be done by anybody but themselves. (It reflects on the spirit of the conference that the Australian delegate declared that as Australia had no racial problems, obviously it did not want to import one.) Despite all the good words the Évian conference provided no solution and did not advance any common refugee and asylum
procedures. As far as Denmark was concerned, its main effort at the conference—besides avoiding being noticed—was to steer clear of any “provocation” in the form of direct criticism of Germany and its manifest persecution of Jews and other minorities. Upon his return to Denmark, Steincke even felt obliged to reassure the public that he had not left room for one single Jewish refugee to cross the Danish border. But there was no need for such concerns. The main flow of refugees did not go north, and by 1940 fewer than six thousand Jews had sought refuge in the three Scandinavian countries.2

  Still, the problem was conceived as one of numbers. There were more than a million Jews in Germany and Austria. How many of these unfortunates could and should Denmark receive? The apathy toward the disaster only grew with the numbers, and Denmark, like other countries, turned its back on the problem and reinforced immigration controls at the border.3

  “Us” and “Them”

  In his confinement at Sorgenfri Castle, King Christian had ample time to reflect on his own encounter with Herr Hitler. As the king was traveling through Germany in 1937, he had stopped over in Berlin, wanting to address the precarious question of the Danish-German border directly with the German chancellor. But the foreign minister, Peter Munch, who was also the leader of the Liberal Center Party, had warned the king not to interfere in this highly political issue. So, according to Christian’s private notes, the conversation with Hitler had mainly turned on less controversial issues relating to “the achievements of Danes at the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin and the sportive education of youth in general.”

  As Germany became increasingly threatening, the issue of Denmark’s security bore down more and more. The threat came from both outside and within. The four democratic parties constituting the center of gravity in Danish politics had no confidence in the Danish Communists and Nazis. Neither was seen as a genuine democratic party but rather each was perceived as a fifth column with close ties to Moscow and Berlin, respectively. The government therefore pushed forward to curb the growth and appeal of these totalitarian movements, both through legislation and through a comprehensive ideological and political mobilization in favor of democracy. It is no coincidence that it was in the mid-1930s, facing the world crisis and growing support for Communism, fascism, and Nazism in most European countries, that Prime Minister Thorvald Stauning went to the polls on a platform labeled “Denmark for the People” or under the slogan “Stauning or Chaos.” A robust national unity was meant to be forged around democracy, and the national flag, the Dannebrog, was flown by the labor movement alongside its traditional red flags.

  Gradually a strong sense developed of a national “us,” which included every citizen adhering to the principles of democracy and its underlying humanitarian values, opposed to a “them” of the political extremes not subscribing to those same ideas. The majority thus stigmatized Communists and Nazis not only as enemies of democracy but also as “un-Danish,” thus as individuals on the margins of society, tolerated but not accepted as part of the community. This deliberate casting of “us” and “them” was to determine the fate of Denmark and that of many Danes during the turbulent times ahead. Indeed, it was meant to do exactly that.

  The political mobilization, however, did not resolve the issue of military defense, or that of Denmark and Germany’s shared border. After a century of battle and war over this issue, a national border was finally established by the Versailles conference and a referendum in 1920. This line meticulously followed the national majority in each and every village, and left as few as possible of the German-speaking minority north of the border and equally few Danish speakers south of it. But the boundary winding and twisting its way across the base of Jutland (Jylland) had never been recognized by Germany, which despite the popular vote in 1920 saw it as part of the unjust dictates of Versailles. Even worse: It was an unfortified line in lowlands, making it difficult—if not impossible—to defend against German armor. No wonder neither Britain nor Sweden would or could come to Denmark’s aid, and that both countries carefully avoided any signal that could be interpreted by Denmark—or by Germany—as a military guarantee of the 1920 border.

  Against this backdrop many within the governing parties considered a Danish military defense against a determined German attack impossible. But the prime minister realized that giving up on defending his country, even at very bad odds and against an overwhelming enemy, was no option. At a minimum, the government had to demonstrate that every possibility had been tried and that every effort had been made. Against his foreign minister’s and coalition partners’ advice, Prime Minister Stau- ning in 1931 appointed the most fervent advocate of national defense, General Erik With, as commander of the army. Unlike the admiral commanding the navy, the staunchly conservative and British-oriented general believed in the importance of a territorial defense, and indeed the possibility of territorial defense. He no longer did so five years later, having explored every possible military strategy in vain. Despite all his efforts and secret contacts with the Swedish high command, the general had not been able to present a credible plan for the defense of Denmark against the ever-growing German military might on flat terrain and with no prospect of reinforcement.

  The four old democratic parties slowly adjusted themselves to the inevitable: If Germany demanded anything from Denmark, including access to Danish territory, there was nothing Denmark could do, other than bow so quickly that it would not be worth Hitler’s while to destroy the country. This was the reason for the foreign minister’s opposition to any informal consultation between Hitler and the king. The government realized that any hint of negotiations about the common border with Hitler’s Germany was bound to lead to requests that Denmark would rather not face. The country was in no position to negotiate with the Reich—let alone to say no. This became even more manifest when Hitler in May 1939 imposed a bilateral nonagression pact in Denmark, the only one of the three Scandinavian countries not daring to refuse.

  The Nazi-Soviet Nonaggression Pact in August 1939 confirmed Denmark’s worst fears that the totalitarian powers had more in common than their ideological tirades seemed to suggest. The pact helped trigger the war, and Poland’s fate during its first weeks made it abundantly clear that even a substantially larger and better-equipped army than Denmark’s had little chance of stopping the German war machine—and that the price of making the attempt was cruelly and destructively high. That autumn the Soviet attack on Finland, a fellow neutral Nordic country, drove home the point. Despite stubborn and heroic Finnish resistance in the frozen polar regions, Britain and France failed to come to Finland’s rescue, and struggling alone over the winter, Finland faced the inevitability of defeat. Denmark shivered, ducked, and reaffirmed its neutrality. Everybody realized that the worst was yet to come—and that Denmark could do little to avoid it.

  Peaceful Occupation

  The worst occurred on the morning of April 9, 1940, with the German onslaught on Denmark and Norway. In the early hours Germany initiated the first-ever combined land, sea, and air attack, landing troops simultaneously in fifteen different locations spread across the country, including the middle of Copenhagen. The scope and strength of the assault took Denmark by surprise. In the midst of it, the German minister to Denmark handed the stunned foreign minister, P. Munch, a unique ultimatum. It laid down a set of conditions, offers, and proposals constituting the outline of an arrangement under which Denmark could retain parts of its sovereignty provided the Danish government chose not to launch an all-out defense.

  King Christian describes in his personal diary how he was summoned to an urgent session of the state council at 5:30 a.m., and how he reluctantly but also forcefully rejected the advice of the commanding general to fight on despite the immediate threat of destruction of the capital and massive civilian casualties. German heavy bombers were hanging in numbers low over Copenhagen, and the king noted: “I considered continued fighting pointless against such supremacy and ordered shooting to be halted and negotiations to be
initiated.”4

  Fighting was suspended virtually before it had begun, and the government accepted the German terms “under protest.” In essence Germany would take Denmark “under protection” based on three crucial commitments the Danish government extracted from the ultimatum that morning: The occupiers would respect Denmark’s continued neutrality and not force Denmark into the war. Moreover, Germany gave an assurance not to “interfere with the Kingdom of Denmark’s territorial integrity or political independence.” This meant that in addition to Denmark staying out of the war, the 1920 border would be recognized for the first time, and Berlin would not interfere in the country’s internal affairs. Democracy could remain.

  That same day Prime Minister Stauning, together with his old coalition partner and the two democratic opposition parties, formed a national unity government that took responsibility for the resulting cooperation with the German authorities. The politicians labeled this construct “the policy of negotiation,” indicating that henceforth every question between the occupying and the occupied countries was to be settled through negotiations between the two. Critics of this stance have tended to use the term “policy of cooperation” to indicate that the negotiation was based on the fiction of Denmark retaining its sovereignty and on the fiction of continued neutrality, both challenged by the fact that Nazi Germany kept the entire country occupied. The Danish government in fact acted under duress, and of course negotiations were conducted under the constant threat of imposing an all-out Nazi administration parallel to the development in Norway, where armed resistance and violent occupation exiled the constitutional government together with King Haakon VII and installed direct Nazi rule in collaboration with the Norwegian Nazi leader Vidkun Quisling.