by Bo Lidegaard
Be that as it may, the king himself cherished no illusions. At the end of this sad day he noted the cruel facts in his personal diary. He did not know the number of deportees, but was aware that the elderly were going to a camp in Bohemia. Still, he feared that the younger Jews would be sent to labor camps.34
That evening, October 2, C. F. Duckwitz, who more than any other German had worked to prevent the action, wrote in his diary a laconic status report of its implementation: “Tonight the Jewish action was carried out and a ship with the valuable cargo of 200 (!) old Jews sailed. In this way we have thus destroyed everything in this country, in this way, we have, as von Dardel told us today with tears in his eyes, finally closed the door to Scandinavia. For this—alas!”
The esteemed Danish historian Hans Kirchhoff, who through a lifetime of research has attempted to unravel the tangled threads about Duckwitz’s role in the Jewish action, has reached the conclusion that Duckwitz acted with sincere motives—but also that he acted in close collaboration with Werner Best both in terms of the warning and in the efforts to minimize the impact of the raid. The two men—and Paul Kanstein—complemented each other well, both facing Danish society while covering their backs vis-à-vis Berlin. Whatever their respective motives, they remained mutually loyal, even as they faced justice after the end of the war.35
CHAPTER 8
* * *
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 3
YSTAD
In the Depths of Night
On board the small boat that had departed from Grønsund earlier the same evening, the twenty-one refugees clustered together through a night that seemed without end. The fear of minefields and German patrols had thrown the cutter off course, and the skipper was apparently not aware of where they were—or where they were going. The idea was horrifying. From the waters south of Falster it is not far to the German coast. If they got stranded there, the journey was bound to end in a bad way. Poul describes the night:
The wind grew stronger and stronger—sometimes we had to stop the engine so that they could take depth soundings—and the boat pitched quite terribly—it was a great solace when it started up again. Then we heard airplanes—apparently a whole lot. It made sense that British airplanes were over Germany that night—we saw flares being dropped—and we saw antiaircraft fire—where it came from, we had no idea. All in all it was only guessing about what you saw—we had no idea.
After a while, also to the south, we now saw a lot of light—later we were told that it was believed to be the lighthouses on the German island of Rügen. We also saw at least one boat—but if it was a patrol boat, or whatever it was, we had no idea. The fishermen did not think we were outside the patrol boats’ range—they also didn’t think so when the clock neared 5 in the morning—but the storm would steadily grow. We changed direction—apparently more northerly. While we had previously had the wind roughly with us, it now came almost diagonally from the front—just about the worst place you can have it. The waves were over the deck—now I had to seriously hold on tightly—those who moved on deck almost had to crawl, if one of the three sailors didn’t help them. A few sought shelter in the wheelhouse—I remained sitting on the deck. It was not easy to comfort everyone—we had no idea where we were, or anything else—and I cannot say that when we talked with the fishermen we got any particularly safe feeling that they knew either. Yet another danger—there is a provision that if a fishing boat stays out longer than a certain time—much shorter than we were out—it must be called by radio. They must have taken some precautions in this regard—perhaps it was the Pimpernel again who had been at work?—and I wonder if it was also he who had arranged that while our boat, which incidentally was not based in Stubbekøbing, left this port, another—equal-sized boat—probably the one that Erik had bought for me—left the harbor and sailed in the opposite direction—so no one could know who was out on the big trip.
We saw a stronger lighthouse—they said it was Falsterbo. We were supposed to go to Trelleborg—so it did not sound completely wrong. At last—the time was close to 6, we saw another light—that must have been land. It was not—as it later turned out—but Gunnar, whose mood was certainly not high, flew into the cabin to encourage them. They surely weren’t having a good time down there. Strangely enough, the children, although seasick, were fairly good-natured. On the whole, they used buckets—but far from 100% had made it. The different coats showed clear traces of that when we came ashore—they looked terrible. Dannin, who was standing straight up the whole trip by the entrance to the cabin, had been down there a little—he had—without knowing it—stood with his leg in the bucket for 15 minutes. What he had been looking for, I don’t know—he even stood with his briefcase in hand.
The light we thought was the land was not quite what it should be. It was red on one side—but if we came far enough to the left, it was white. We tried to steer by it—it was literally impossible to stay on course—time and time again we were blown off. And what was at least as bad—you had the impression that the distance to it—which was otherwise impossible to judge, increased rather than the opposite.
We saw a large steamer—there was no question of sending an SOS—first we had nothing to send it with—and it would of course be picked up as well by the Germans—and there was still the risk of being captured—we were quite aware that we were not within territorial waters—however, if only we could be sure we were heading towards Sweden. We tried to read the depth—I don’t think they got much out of it. The sea was coming right over the deck—those who were on it almost in a huddle under the sails were swept out along the railing—but the railing was fairly high, so it seemed relatively safe.—I had one wave after another crash over me. I was soaking wet through my thick overcoat—through woolen clothes, shirt, and underwear—since I only had a quite new pair of leather gloves which were in my inside pocket, I did not dare put them on—and I had to hold on so as not to be thrown overboard. I had the feeling that the fishermen had no idea where we were. They did mention Ystad—but they also mentioned Kalmar—so it was hard to know what was right.
Here the geography of the southern Swedish coastline must be taken into account. While Ystad is far to the south, it is almost 250 kilometers farther up the Baltic Sea to Kalmar, on the landward side of the island of Øland. It’s a distance no fishing boat can reach in a single night. Perhaps the skipper mentioned Karshamn, which is about midway, but still very far to the east. Whatever the skipper thought, Poul had good reason for his suspicion that the crew had completely lost their bearings. Poul continues: “We tried to follow the big steamer’s course—but it was clear—it would simply not be possible. So they turned to the east relative to our northern course—we did not know if we would get there.”
If you consider the map, you understand Poul’s concern. To the east lies the deep Baltic, with the island of Bornholm like a stopper in its mouth. To the north is Sweden. Once you’ve come past the island of Møn and the Øresund, a northerly course is far preferable to an easterly one—if you want to go to Sweden: “It began to get light—a lantern was mistakenly lit and then just as quickly put out again—still in fear that the Germans might see us. Finally it really looked like there was land. Admittedly it was the break of day and one could no longer see the light—but there was something on the horizon—was it Sweden—or … Yes—it was land—its shading came through a bit more by now—and in a single direction, not far from our course, it looked like there was a city. Indeed—it was Ystad.”
Kis spent the same hours below deck and recounts the chaotic conditions in which the strangers suddenly became closer than any of them wanted:
I have no idea at what times the different things happened. Inger and I got some sleep, but later (I think around 4) the swells were terrible. Mette woke up and was seasick, and she threw up over Palle, who wept because he was wet. I could not get up, so I only tried to comfort him. We got a bucket down there, and we kept it going from hand to hand. We were happy when Arne and later Gunnar cam
e down so they could take care of the kids for a while. Palle and Dorte held out the longest, but threw up in the end, Palle several times, and Dorte got much better again right after. Inger handed the bucket over to them, and I admired her for it. Mrs. Ledermann came down and sat on the bench, and Mrs. Goldstein stood on the stairs up to the deck.—Finally we could not manage to get the bucket around, and we told the kids that they should just throw up. Mr. Ledermann, who was spending the night on the floor, sprang up—he was lying just below Dorte. When I leaned forward to comfort her, he stumbled into me, and I got my head struck. Inger also hit her leg, and we were in pain. Mr. Dannin came down one time, and when Mr. Ledermann didn’t move from his place to make room, he said to him: “You lack refugee culture, damn it.” Once, when Inger had to pick up the bucket she couldn’t shake it loose, and it turned out that Mr. Dannin was standing with one foot planted in it.
When it doesn’t help to cry, you may as well laugh, and they also tried that below deck:
Another time the bucket overturned, but in the end we were almost indifferent to it all, although we thought with horror about how our clothes and other belongings looked; nevertheless we could not help but laugh, although it was actually all pretty hopeless. By now it was well over the time when we should have been in Sweden. We started to get a little anxious about what might be wrong, but we only found out later what horrors they encountered on deck. I must say that except for the one time when Palle wept, which you certainly couldn’t blame him for, both he and Dorte were very sweet and brave that night, just like Inger’s children; and they were also praised for that, and we promised them a reward when we arrived in Sweden.
We were supposed to go to Trelleborg, and the fisherman’s chart only reached that far.… They saw flares and antiaircraft fire from the deck, which indicated a British attack on Germany that night, and they heard the sound of the engines. We had passed several German patrol boats, one of them was very near; they had seen the red and green lantern and were terrified at the thought that it would discover us. Fortunately the wind carried the sound away from the patrol boat and the fisherman picked up his pace, so we avoided the danger. Toward 6 a.m. Gunnar cried out that they could see a lighthouse that was signaling from Sweden. It turned out later that it was not, but we were encouraged, however little. It began to get light, but we were not yet in Swedish territorial waters, which of course was dangerous.—We kept asking if we would soon get in, but they still could not see land, and the boat went off course again and again.
Ystad is situated some fifty kilometers farther east than Trelleborg on the Swedish coast, so it is no wonder that the travelers on board found the sail time long. Allan’s version is short but vivid: “By morning we did not know where we were. The skipper kept saying that there was only half an hour now until we arrived, and after the half hour, there was another half hour. Finally we saw land, and now it was important to find a port where we could go. We found one, but did not know if it was Trelleborg, Ystad, or Kalmar. It turned out to be Ystad.”
Kis’s account is from the cabin: “Finally the message came that we had waited so impatiently for. There was land in sight, but the fisherman didn’t know where in Sweden we had reached. He believed Kalmar, while Arne said Ystad.—Those who had been on deck had frozen and had been soaked by the seas, which crashed over the deck. They had to hold on tight, so as not to be swept overboard. Most had been seasick, but Poul and Gunnar did very well.”
The relief on board was palpable, and Poul tells how different passengers each reacted as it brightened and there was land in sight:
I must tell a little episode—one of those which almost seems like a parody. Before we were even sure whether it was land or not, something suddenly rose out of the pile of sails on deck—a lady asks me if I have a match. I thought I was dreaming. I considered those who were there, completely destroyed by seasickness. I had been able to keep track of Allan—he was really very sweet and brave and was content to say that he didn’t feel great—it was the understatement of the day. Little Miss Ledermann was alternately crying and yelling, although her boyfriend had done everything to cheer her up, but Mrs. Dannin—incidentally, the only non-Jewish passenger among us—I had not even seen her the day before. It was partly that I didn’t have a match, and if I did, it would never have burned—everything was soaking wet, but the lady survived, after all, and had nerve enough to ask for a match for her cigarette. She hadn’t been sick—but just was not able to bear being in the cabin, where there was a lot of vomiting, and where all perhaps had not been equally considerate. She came up to me when we had come ashore and thanked me, because I had been almost the only one who had kept the peace on deck—and had only encouraged and comforted.
In the stuffy cabin Kis and her twin sister are so exhausted that they hardly dare to believe that it’s over: “When we were told that we were almost in, the children and others who were in the cabin went out on deck. Inger and I could not bear to lift ourselves up before we were inside the pier. We each took a sip of cognac from a small bottle Inger had saved for this moment, and it healed us immediately. We were in Ystad.”
The Well-Box
At around the same time the refugees from Grønsund sailed into the port of Ystad, Bernhard Cohn came in for an unpleasant surprise. He had, together with a handful of other refugees, spent the night in the port of Copenhagen in the captain’s cabin of the schooner, which was supposed to depart early the next morning, headed for Horsen but planning to land the secret passengers on the coast of Sweden along the way: “I had slept on the ship, covered by the captain’s filthy comforter. Wulff lay on a bench. We were up by 5 a.m. We were informed that we would lie behind the storeroom. The skipper couldn’t put us in the cargo hold, because he did not trust his crew. It was impossible for all of us to be in the storeroom. The tailor was then placed under a bunk, where he lay comfortably. Wulff refused to climb down into the storeroom, he could not stand the smell. It didn’t bother me. However the skipper declared that I could be discovered, and we all had to go ashore. That was the whole kettle of fish. I got so angry that when I jumped over the ladder I twisted my left leg.”1
It is no wonder that very few authentic photographs document the escape of the Danish Jews. For the fugitives it was life or death—and their helpers attempted to leave no trace that could lead the Gestapo back to them or be used as evidence.
Among the few contemporary photographs of the escape are those taken by young Mogens Margolinsky of his fellow passengers on the cutter sailing from Grønsund to Ystad with the Marcus and Hannover families.
Above, the child who lies under the sails appears to be a boy, probably Palle Marcus, the young son of Kis and Gunnar. Below, at the bottom of the photograph, standing in profile seems to be Poul Hannover, while the man on the right with the pipe could well be one of the enterprising Goldstein brothers. The man behind him with the cap is apparently one of the fishermen.
The pictures were taken in relatively calm water and in daylight, probably just before the entrance to Ystad. The jacket photo on this book is from the same series.
Private family collection
There was also fear in the hours before dawn that Sunday morning in a small fishing boat in another part of Copenhagen harbor, in Christianshavn’s Canal next to the German barracks, where Leo Schüstin, a professional wrestler and the son of Russian immigrants, was hiding with his family. Shortly afterward he wrote a brief report, reflecting the situation of a refugee with much less means and connections than many from the “old families.” Against this background, he did not need many warnings to understand what was coming or what it could mean. He and his family had already gone into hiding by mid-September, and on Saturday, October 2, he had been on the run for ten days, staying with friends and acquaintances without returning to his home. During that evening he “got hold of a fisherman, a man of the right kind, he was from Frederiksværk, and he took us aboard at Ovengaden oven Vandet, next to the German barracks. Then we sat in
the boat all night. It was the longest night of my life. My nerves were on edge, we could not eat or drink. We were just waiting to leave. We would sail on Sunday at 7 a.m. when it was light.”2
Now the family waited with foreboding for daybreak and the fishermen who would take them to Sweden. At every moment they feared the worst: “It was 5:30 a.m. when the fishermen came. They wanted to make coffee for us, but we refused. We did not feel like it. Eventually the time was late, so we had to be packed down. My mother and wife were crammed into a well-box that was nailed shut and put down in the hold.”
(Before shipboard refrigeration, fish were primarily kept alive in water. Well-boxes, still found in ports and canals, are large, flat wooden boxes whose sides and bottom are completely pierced by finger-size holes so that water can flow freely through them. The well-boxes are supplied with hatches, so that fresh fish can be easily placed inside and then caught again with a net on a handle. That was the kind of well-box on board the fishing boat, in which the two women were now confined. A very uncomfortable place to be—and fatal if the well-box somehow got into water.)
Leo Schüstin did not get better conditions himself: “I myself was laid under the wheelhouse, just above the shaft. There was just room to lie curled up, but since it was life or death to do it, it was done. Otherwise it would have been impossible. When this was done, each of the fishermen took a big, thick, knotted stick and told us that the Danish police were not bad, but if the Germans came aboard, they would be killed. Before leaving, we had agreed that when he turned the engine off and stamped 3 times on the floor, we had to be quiet. Three minutes after departure, the engine was turned off. The police came on board, and we were quiet as mice. It all lasted about 5 minutes, but for us it was an eternity.