Countrymen

by Bo Lidegaard

  And then he said good-bye—and he did so in such a way that from that second I was aware that he was quite simply and completely the right one. We both wept—and they rode away.

  I didn’t turn to look after them—I went out—as far as possible unseen by the beet diggers—and sat in a ditch. I had probably been sitting there for an hour when I saw a cyclist approaching. I jumped up, delighted—it was the Pimpernel’s wife—and Palle sat in back—so merry. I took him to my ditch, wrapped him in their travel blanket which he had been sitting on on the luggage rack—and gave him something to play with. We probably sat there a good hour or so, when Kis and Gunnar and Dorte came—I was later told that the Pimpernel had taken Dorte on his bike and brought her out to Inger. And a little later—when it was almost 6 p.m.—Inger came with Allan and Mette.

  Kis, who together with her family formed the rearguard, also mentions the helpfulness they encountered: “Well, we started on our walk out of town. The weather was very mild, and we were all wrapped to sail in all our woolens and the warm clothes we had, so it was not long before we were sweating, and I also had to lug the children’s clothing and Gunnar our rug.”

  What Kis could not know was that the refugees at Frey’s Hotel had been denounced to the German police and that a raid on the hotel was conducted shortly after she left with her children. The Germans found the hotel quiet—no refugees were there. Meanwhile the family continued on:

  We had not gone halfway before Palle began to get tired, and Gunnar had already had to carry him on his back. Suddenly an “angel” arrived in the figure of a woman on a bicycle. It turned out to be Mrs. August Jensen, and she greeted us from Poul and asked if she should run Palle the rest of the way for us, which both Palle and we were happy about. A little bit later, Mr. August Jensen came and took Dorte. As we came closer to the ferry berth we met both Mr. and Mrs. August Jensen, who were heading back toward the town again. We said thank you and good-bye to them, and all four of us were nearly in tears. They were a fine pair of people!

  A little further along the road we had a glimpse of Inger, who together with Allan, Mette, and Dorte was hidden in some bushes. We continued with Dorte past the ferry landing, where we saw Poul and Palle. There were a lot of beet carts being driven onto the ferry, and we did not want to attract attention, so we remained in the shelter of some bushes. Soon after, Inger and the kids came out there and we sat on the rug while the children played around.—We ate the packed lunch and then it started to rain, so we went to shelter in the bushes.—When it was just past 7 p.m. we approached the ferry berth. The others began to come, and at 7:25 the grocery truck drove in with Erik riding on the footboard. I spoke a moment with a young man, Svend Otto Nielsen, who was a friend of Goldstein’s. He was definitely also a special kind of man.—He had been taken and tortured by the Germans, but when I suggested to him to come with us, he replied that he should, but that they couldn’t all leave the country, because there had to be some to help those who were left behind—I was told later that when he left the main station in the morning with 2 revolvers in his pocket (we should have had one, but didn’t because he did not think it was wise), he had been searched by the Germans, but he had a fake police badge, which saved him. On the whole it felt very good, in those days, to feel the kindness, helpfulness, and dedication so many of our countrymen showed, and also the camaraderie that existed between all of us who by chance were “in the same boat.”—We were 21, Poul, Inger, Allan and Mette, Gunnar and I with our 2, Mrs. Goldstein with engineer Moritz and Samuel Goldstein, Director Ledermann and his wife, 2 daughters, and 1 son, Mogens Margolinsky, and Adolph Dannin with wife, son, and daughter.

  Poul Hannover continues the story from the ditch in which the families sought shelter:

  It became more and more windy—it rained on and off—we huddled to shelter ourselves as best we could, but it was still pretty wet. We ate a little of the food we brought—and when the time was just past 7 p.m., we approached the ferry dock. Then the others started to arrive. A car had driven the weakest out some way from the spot—and when the time was 7:25 p.m. a covered food truck came chugging along—where Erik stood on the footboard.… A traveler, whose name I did not know, came up to me—it was the one who had come at the last minute. Adolph Dannin was his name—we had gone to a dance together God knows how many years ago.

  A few fishing boats sailed past—one had rattled around a little when it suddenly landed—and in less than 2 minutes we were all aboard—most tucked into the cabin—luggage lashed on board—we made quick farewells—“Erik!” I shouted—“Long Live Denmark!” shouted Dannin—and we were already out—after all holding hands and having said their farewells.

  Grønsund ferry landing at the time of the escape. The landing was small and located in a remote part of the island, with no nearby farms or houses except the ferry house.

  Local archive, Stubbekøbing

  Mette Hannover shortly after her arrival in Sweden.

  Private family collection

  The parting is brief and unsentimental. Everyone is aware of how little they know about what else the night will bring for them.

  On Board

  By many detours Bernhard Cohn had ended up in his friends’ summerhouse along the Strandvej, north of Copenhagen. Earlier in the day he had been told that his mother was taken during the night’s action, and he was now looking for possible ways of getting across to Sweden. He described his efforts this way:

  I was in the summerhouse for a few hours and didn’t know what to do. The Gestapo would not get me alive. On the other hand, I definitely did not intend to go down without a fight. I had once jokingly said to Pusse [his nickname for his wife, Ella] that the Germans would not get hold of me, and I would do my best to keep this promise.—Jeanette said it surely would be possible to travel with Harry on Monday. He (or his friends) had paid 10,000 kroner for this joke, but then the trip would be absolutely safe! Jeanette contacted Erik Petersen. She told me that one of the police patrol boats went from the beach, and that Erik knew everything about it. I did not trust Erik, but he could be quite fun to talk with. I cycled … over to Erik. He was not at home, of course. After an hour where I raged like a wild animal, Willy came. He told me that Erik was down by Kaj Nielsen in the office.—Willy asked me in passing if I would like to go to Sweden! He did not think, incidentally, that it was all that bad, etc.

  He has always been an idiot.—He put me in touch with Kaj Nielsen. Kaj, as the upright figure he is, said it would be taken care of. Gradually the house filled up, [and] I decided to go to … with whom I could always be and sleep at night. I had barely come inside before Kaj Nielsen called and asked me to come over to his office, but it had to be now. After some difficulty we got hold of a car to get us to town. I lay in the bottom of the vehicle.… Up at Kaj Nielsen’s was a Mr. Wulff, who seemed to be a decent guy.… Wulff and I were to go down to Havnegade, where there was a schooner. It was to sail the next morning for Horsens [in Jutland] at 6 a.m. It would anchor somewhere off the Swedish coast and take us ashore from there using a dinghy. Wulff and I sneaked onboard the ship by 8 o’clock in the evening. We were well received by a mate who made a good impression. The skipper would soon come, and in the meantime we sat down in the captain’s cabin.23

  While Cohn and his friends were waiting to get going, Poul Hannover describes the circumstances on the boat they had awaited with so much longing:

  I sat down—after a short bout of convulsive weeping—and was together with, I do not know how many, nestled down in the engine room—into a corner where I had as much space as if you were put under your own desk. I lay there for the first hour—and talked to the others, who didn’t have it any better. I spoke mostly with the engineer Goldstein—a brilliant guy.

  It might now—though it is unromantic—be the place to say who was on the boat—in addition to the three magnificent people who helped us over—and hopefully are now home again.… Given the four late arrivals who joined us, the price should go down
—it was Samuel Goldstein who took care of it—but as he, like me, had a lot of uncertain costs, we agreed with him that if there was any surplus, the money should go to young Margolinsky, who apparently had little means for the future.

  Let me also as an explanation say that Mrs. Goldstein, who was born in Russia, had already had to flee her country once. She was widowed early—had gotten through by sewing and had thereby educated one son as a civil engineer with a very fine degree—the other son they could not afford to educate—so he became a foreman instead at his uncle’s factory. It was he who was engaged to Ledermann’s daughter.

  Yes, so the ship went. There were said to be three ship berths in the cabin—no, bunks, I should say—and I had reserved them so that the kids got them—whether they did, I hardly know—I was not even in the cabin—they had it terrible down there. When we had been out for half an hour, the boat began to roll terribly—and it did that until we set foot on Swedish soil. I suppose I do not know how bad they were—so let me just tell a little of how I was and felt through the night. It goes without saying that it was a night I will never forget. Even if one in the beginning lay down somewhat carelessly in the oil-stinking engine room, hearing the machine’s monotonous but energetic stamping—it was probably more because we now had cast our die—there was no turning back—the only thing was to pray that a merciful providence would lead us the right way. The men on board gathered around as if it was just a joke—they put the luggage aside—I could at least see that we had gotten it all in. But I soon realized that I could not bear to be down in the engine room. I had to get up. I squeezed out of my awkward position and went up through the narrow control room—and out onto the deck, where I sat on the machinery’s housing. There I was—virtually without moving for 12 hours. In the beginning it went fairly well—later I had to grab onto a rope—not to be thrown overboard. I talked with Gunnar—and I told him what he had been spared hearing on the radio. Also, that this had got Inger to master her reluctance to leave, which she had felt until the last—now she was clear that there was no other way.…

  I also talked to Moritz Goldstein—and his brother, who was great at keeping our spirits up. Thankfully Gunnar was completely untouched by the sea—I can say that I did scarcely more than hold myself up—and he was able to run around and begin to distribute food, fruit, and drinks. Samuel Goldstein even had some real chocolate—it tasted so wonderful.

  It wasn’t going very well in the cabin. A few of the occupants came up eventually—first Miss Ledermann—Goldstein’s girlfriend. She had been ill with pneumonia shortly before—this was hardly a good cure. Allan came a little later. The boat had a quantity of fishnets on board—which covered most of the deck—but you could use this if you were discovered by a patrol boat, as you could set the nets to fish. They were placed on top of this—there was even a lady—it later turned out to be Mrs. Dannin—young Margolinsky lay on the other side. They covered themselves in some sail—and the fishermen on the whole were wonderfully helpful—they picked them up and held them when they were sick—they helped them with a small bucket when it was needed—and they helped set the mood now, which was really needed. For example, one suddenly said: “It’s probably best that my wife doesn’t know that we’re flopping around here, “or when he talked about how he had sailed the accompanying boat for our swimming competitions. He heard that I had not been able to take along my father-in-law, but that he was in the hospital, and I was nervous about him being there. The fisherman offered to bring him down to stay with him—if I would just give him the address, he would take care of it.

  We saw a lot of light. They thought it was the lighthouse on the island of Møn—others were herring boats that were out—we certainly knew nothing. When we asked them if they thought we had passed the patrol boat, they answered no. We sailed without lights—but the engine’s thumping could probably be heard quite far away.

  If the previous night was terrible—it was nothing compared to this one. I do not know what time it was—but it was probably toward midnight when we observed something with a green light to the south—it was the patrol boat. All light in the cabin was instantly turned off—a blanket hung over the window to the wheelhouse—all sound ceased—it was as if we hardly dared to breathe. We were almost required to lie down flat—those who could clambered down into the cabin again—while straining our eyes mightily to see if the boat came nearer or became more distant. Luckily the wind blew the sound away from the boat—but anyway—it looked as if it was approaching. The fisherman then ramped up to full speed—the engine hammering away—as our own hearts pounded for our lives. In the cabin they hardly suspected what was going on—but the excitement is not easily explained. Even the fisherman’s good humor seemed to fade—even though he consoled himself by saying that he had enough fuel to speed up—it takes a tremendous amount of fuel—and we anxiously looked on to see how it went. I do not know how long the hunt was on. I would think it was the best part of a half hour, and particularly in the beginning, it was not possible to find out if the boat’s lights were approaching or were getting more distant. Well—of course you might say that we were not positive whether it was actually pursuing us—it did not use a searchlight—but that initially it was moving in the same direction as us—there is no doubt. At last we could see that the distance was increasing—the danger seemed over this time.

  Poul Hannover and the three fishermen were not hallucinating. But they had trouble figuring out what it was they saw. It was widely known that German patrol boats policed Danish waters, but how many there were and how aggressively they approached no one knew. There had not previously been an attempted mass escape across the Sound.

  Allan’s account is short and precise: “After half an hour we were allowed to come up on deck, which most did, except Kis, who put Dorte & Palle to bed, and Mom, who put Mette to bed in the cabin. During the night we saw light once, which seemed to be from a German patrol boat that pursued us for about 10 minutes. Fishermen went full speed, and we got away. Later in the night there was terrible weather, and the boat was blown off course, and we came so far south that we could see the lighthouse on the island of Rügen [off the northern German peninsula].

  “Eventually everybody was seasick, and one after the other vomited. It wasn’t nice to be on the deck where it rained and stormed. I was together with a few others under a sail, but it was pouring down, and the water washed over the deck, so I was soaked to the bone. Dad, who was on deck with me, stayed standing through the night holding on to the mast.”

  Kis Marcus has a more complete version:

  At exactly 7:30 p.m. the fishing boat left, and we went on board after having said good-bye to Erik, who had proved himself to be a true friend. It all went very quickly. We were unloaded into the cabin, where we had counted on immediately putting the kids in the 2 bunks that were there. But there was a whole lot of stuff on the bunks, and I could not pull it off, and then all the female passengers came down there, plus the older Mr. Ledermann, and we could not move. Inger and I got ourselves to the bench with the kids. It soon became too hot.

  We did not know that many of the passengers would later go up, so it looked pretty hopeless. Allan, who lay or sat facing me said: “This was not what we had in mind!” And as soon as they opened the door to the deck, he hurried upstairs along with most of the others.

  The young fisherman named Arne came down and helped us get the kids to bed, and besides Mr. Ledermann, only Inger and I were in the cabin. We all took seasickness powder that Inger had taken along, but it did not help so much. The kids (Mette and Palle in one bunk—Dorte in the other) did fall asleep fairly quickly, and the first part of the night was not so bad, though it really rocked and I was the first to throw up in a bag, which we had from some fruit. It was dark most of the time in the cabin, as no light should be seen, and we had a little opening to the deck to get some fresh air. Suddenly I realized that I was lying on a lot of pears that had been crushed.

  The Helpers
r />   The amazing thing about the network of escape routes that was built after October 1 was both their effectiveness and the fact that a few days earlier there had been nothing. Only a few hundred Danes had fled across the Sound in the past three and a half years, and the resistance was as unprepared as the authorities to organize a mass escape. There was no organization, no coordination, no supervision, and no training. What worked instead was a myriad of initiatives and the ingenuity of the fugitives themselves and of the countless helpers who, from one moment to the next, engaged and undertook to do what was necessary.

  We have little contemporary testimony from individual Danes at the time of their gradual transition from spontaneous helpers of distressed countrymen into organized and committed relief workers. Generally they did not write, they acted. A pair of them, Associate Professor Aage Bertelsen and his wife, Gerda Bertelsen, from Lyngby, north of Copenhagen, came to play a central role in building one of the most important circles, known as the Lyngby Group, which helped about one thousand refugees find passage to Sweden without a single arrest. A few years after the war Bertelsen wrote a book in which he tried to recollect the emotion that made helpers gather the very night the action was executed. At the time of publication the book was translated into a number of languages, and it has been many foreigners’ first exposure to the Danish rescue work whose spontaneity Bertelsen aptly describes in his preface to the Danish edition from December 1952:

  The small crowd that gathered in Lyngby on the night of Octo- ber 2, the night of the raids, with the decision to send the endangered Jews to Sweden, knew nothing about the means and opportunities, and what they thought they knew turned out to be wrong. Both for them who met that night, as well as anyone who later joined the group, it is true that they lacked almost any objective prerequisites to carry out the task they had undertaken. We lived inland, far from a suitable embarkation point. We had no special knowledge of the coast, knew nothing of sailing, had no connections among the fishermen and skippers, no money to pay, and not so much as a dinghy to sail with. The Germans had long since ordered all boats not used for business purposes removed from the coasts. The legitimate government had been ousted, the country’s institutions of executive authority were under German control, and despite their best will, we could only count on the police for limited support. Our only real asset in the fight against the Gestapo, the world’s cruelest and best-organized police force, was our will to help the persecuted. On every page of my presentation you will find testimony of our ignorance and incapacity in relation to the task at hand. Everyone can easily point out how the transports of Jews, at least in the early days, were a chain of improvisations, coincidences, misunderstandings, and amateurish blunders. But one thing is certain as the evidence of all of this is presented: If the helpers of the Jews had no other prerequisites, we were at least united in wanting to help those people.24