by Bo Lidegaard
“Everything went well, and most of the danger was over. We sailed past the German observation boats. Everything went smoothly, we came off Barsebäck, where we saw and waited for the Swedish marine police to come out. They did not.”
At this early stage fishermen apparently believed that it might be unsafe or dangerous for them to enter the Swedish port, so the refugees were transferred at sea from the Danish fishing boats to the Swedish naval vessels. The idea of turning back at this point must have been unbearable for the fugitives: “Then the fishermen made a decision to enter, no matter what it cost. We were taken by the police. The fishermen’s papers were also taken, but it was not long before they were allowed to sail again. There was an interrogation of us in Barsebäck. We got coffee and tea. Everyone was so nice to us. We were then driven by car to Gævlinge, where there was questioning. Everything went smoothly and we were driven by car to Malmö, where the third interrogations were held. Then we got ration cards and were sent down to the Jewish community, where we each got 25 kroner and were assigned a fine room at Södra Förstadsgatan 36.”
After the hardships, the small family had landed, and relief exudes from Schüstin’s brief notes. For his family, as for other refugees, it’s also a question of finding connections so they can leave the camps and go out into Swedish society: “In the evening we went to our good friend Gustav Lindstrand, who is chairman of [the sports club] ‘Sparta’ in Malmö. He lives on Skolgatan 7, where he has a fine fur business and the entire house. When he heard what had happened and how, he put his whole vast apparatus in gear. He has done everything for me, for which I personally cannot thank him enough. He and his wife have proved themselves to be the most helpful people I’ve ever known.”3
Tout Paris
Back in Copenhagen the Bergstrøm family had a very different Sunday morning, marked by the small everyday routines that despite the occupation and the unfolding drama were still attainable—for some. Meticulously taking notes, Bergstrøm went on with his diary: “We slept until 9 o’clock and rested after the air-raid siren. I raised the blackout curtains. It was fine, sunny weather. Sat down to work on the war book [his diary]. Then washed myself using the washbasin. At noon I called the fish restaurant and reserved Tout Paris.
Leo and Sarah Schüstin.
In the years 1882 to 1914 a great number of Jews—between ten and twelve thousand—immigrated to Denmark. Fleeing pogroms in Eastern Europe and Russia, they constituted a little surge in the huge wave of Jews who migrated from East to West during this period, many via Copenhagen. Most went on and settled elsewhere in western Europe, the United States, or South America, but around three thousand stayed in Denmark, where they constituted, by local conditions, a significant and strange immigrant group, known as “Russian Jews.” The group contained a mixture of Orthodox families, Zionists, and socialist atheists. Yet they appeared to the surrounding communities as fairly similar, not least because of their common language, Yiddish, and their culture.
The melding of these “Russian Jews” into Danish society was not easy, and it took many years before the new citizens were reasonably assimilated. The newcomers looked exotic to the local Danes, and they settled predominantly in the same Copenhagen neighborhoods that during the first decades of the twentieth century were characterized by small Jewish traders in professions such as dressmaking and millinery. Not wealthy people, they had only limited contact with the surrounding community, including the well-integrated “old Jews” in Denmark.
The integration progressed, however, and by the time World War II broke out, most “Russian Jews” were well established in Danish society. Some were successful businessmen, and their children had learned Danish and Danish culture through school.
Leo and Sarah Schüstin are examples of this trend. They were both born in Copenhagen around 1910. Leo was the son of a young Jewish refugee from Lithuania, and he worked first as a hatter and later became a professional wrestler. His mother, Rebecca, joined her son and daughter-in-law in the escape. She was fifty-six years old when for the second time she had to flee her country.
Danish Jewish Museum
“Elsa [Bergstrøm’s wife] and Tusse [their daughter] were seated on the sofa. There were only a few people. The restaurant missed the Swedes, the waiter said. We got a half bottle of Liebfraumilch for 14 kroner, before it was 2 or 3 kroner. Tusse is a connoisseur, she ate as much as the rest of us. After the main course we had a pancake and Elsa and I a glass of black currant rum each. The waiter talked about the old customers, among them Mr. Hurwitz, professor of law. ‘I wonder what has become of him,’ he said, worried. ‘He has gone to Sweden with his entire family,’ I informed him. It seemed to please him. With the waiter I met the same opinion as I have. Not fond of Jews, but they should not be treated like animals.”4
On the same day Bergstrøm decides—much against his custom—to go to church. He gives the background: “At Vesterbro Torv we met Sergeant Godtfred Jensen. He said that even today some Jews had been picked up … and that he intended to go to church for once, as it was reported that a letter would be read from the bishop protesting against the persecution of the Jews. With my book in mind, I decided to go to church.”
Bergstrøm was working on his monumental book about life under the occupation, and wanted to include it all. Together with his wife and daughter, he went to witness what would happen: “There were many people in the church. Two white-clad girls with Danish flags were stationed at the foot of the stairs to the altar. It was a church festival. As a result of the baby boom four children were baptized. Tusse went right up close and followed the ceremony with the greatest attention. Then she came back to us. She was aware that there was a uniformed cop sitting in the back. It was probably Godtfred Jensen. A church officer came up to him and had him removed. Possibly to a less exposed position. I was bored by a long homily on the mission in India. Then another priest came to the pulpit. When he said he had a letter from the bishop to read aloud, a little shock went through the congregation. The priest read the protest against persecution of the Jews. One had to remember that Christ was from the Jews’ land. And that Christianity had the Old Testament as its basis. You had to obey God rather than man. Persecution of Jews was also a violation of the Danish sense of justice. Therefore the church had to protest.”
Bergstrøm “came to think about what had happened in Norway, when the priests protested. The Danes now walked in their Norwegian colleagues’ footsteps. I wonder if it will have the same effect?”
It had long been a thorn in the side of Danish pastors that their Norwegian colleagues had protested already during Easter 1942. They protested against the growing nazification of Norwegian society, and their action had led to the bishop’s arrest and several priests’ resignations. Some in Denmark had begun to prefer “Norwegian conditions,” where it was clear that the regime was imposed by the occupying power, to the more ambiguous picture in Denmark, where it still was the Danish authorities who managed things—but on terms partly dictated by the Germans. Normally the Danish state church keeps its distance from politics. The clergy may express opinions, but it is very unusual for the church to speak with an authoritative voice, and it has no institutional mechanism for establishing a common position on matters relating to politics—or even faith. The informal council of bishops can, however, under extraordinary circumstances, issue a declaration. Such a letter was now read in churches throughout the country, setting out a definite demarcation. The point was made quite plainly that under the circumstances the individual bore a responsibility to act, even if this entailed violating rules and regulations: “The leaders of the Danish Church have a clear understanding of our duty to be law-abiding citizens and not to revolt needlessly against those who exercise authority over us—but our conscience obliges us at the same time to maintain the law and to protest against any violation of rights. We will therefore unambiguously declare our allegiance to the doctrine that bids us obey God more than man.”
As the histori
an Leni Yahil has pointed out, “this statement is in reality an expression of the spiritual and moral foundation of the Danish government,” and she quotes a Jewish refugee’s comment that the Danes did what they did, not as much for the Jews’ sake, but because they wanted to protect their concept of justice. The pastoral letter is an unequivocal call for civil disobedience. A recognition that the individual, face-to-face with injustice, has a duty to act, whether or not that means a break with the legal authorities. There is more than one account of congregations, after hearing the pastoral letter read, spontaneously standing up and expressing their commitment with an “Amen!” King Christian in his diary that day limits himself to one short sentence that accompanies a copy of the letter: “The Jews are remembered in all churches.”5
Without getting lost in these considerations, Bergstrøm followed events from his usual ironic distance: “After the reading of the bishop’s protest the first verses of the solemn hymn ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’ was sung. In his prayer the priest interwove prayers for the Norwegian, Swedish, Icelandic, and Finnish churches and for the Jews. Then we left. It had been a historic moment. The church took a risk. We went home, as it was past 6 o’clock in the afternoon.”
The pastoral letter was drafted at the initiative of the bishop of Copenhagen, Hans Fuglsang-Damgaard, who had from the beginning of the occupation championed the idea of a visible church that took upon itself a spiritual responsibility for society and the state. He was known as an outspoken critic of anti-Semitism and as a moderate activist, who on the one hand restrained the more radical clergy, and on the other rejected attempts to make the church an instrument of politicians’ attempts to keep the population quiet.
Among the bishops he was the one who was willing to go furthest in confrontation with the occupation, and the adoption of the bishop’s pastoral letter to be read in churches on October 3 was possible only because Fuglsang-Damgaard hammered the idea through at a meeting among his colleagues convened for that purpose.6
Bergstrøm also noted that Sunday evening that a police officer told him “that the university was closed for 8 days. On Saturday a student stood up and said that they would not study alongside two Nazi students. They should either remove themselves, or the others would go. And then the students ended up leaving the premises. It looks like a whole lot of panic.”
At the invitation of student organizations the same day, the senate of Copenhagen University adopted a brief statement: “Guided by the sufferings imposed over the last days on Danish citizens, the Dean and the Senate have decided to suspend classes at Copenhagen University for a week. Classes resume on Monday, October 11.”
Bergstrøm busily sought further information on the situation: “I called and spoke with Næsh. Now the Jewish suicides had begun. Two old ladies had taken their own lives with gas yesterday. And today there was a harrowing drama in a seaside cabin near Helsingør Seabath. Solomon, a Jewish manufacturer, had cut the throats of his two children, his wife, and himself. His wife and children were dead, he was barely alive. ‘Yes,’ we both said quietly. ‘There may be a good deal more to come.’ I added that we live in ghastly times.”
Unlike many other rumors Bergstrøm picked up, the horrifying story of the man who killed his wife and two children, and attempted suicide himself, referred to an actual tragic event. The man survived and received assistance from both doctors and the police. He was later helped to Sweden.7
Such tragedies had not previously been part of life in occupied Denmark. Now, people felt evil moving closer to themselves. It nourished the feeling that the German action was directed against the entire population, and that they all were now exposed to the occupation’s arbitrary brutality. At the same time it deepened the gulf that separated them from the Danes who sided with the Germans, and who at one stroke became even more marginalized and outcast than before.
The Port of Ystad
On Sunday morning the boat loaded with refugees landed at long last in the Swedish port of Ystad. Poul Hannover recounts the arrival scene: “We were thrown past a buoy—now we saw the harbor entrance quite clearly—everything else was forgotten—and a moment later we saw a few workers on the outer breakwater come rushing out, waving their hats: ‘Welcome here,’ they said. I don’t think there was a dry eye for any of us who saw it. Three men, who climbed down into a boat from a small warship—threw out a rope and led us toward the quay, where we put to. A few soldiers were present there—oh, surely they could not be green—the Swedish uniforms are not much different from the German—but no—here again, uniformed people who waved to us, friendly. And then we were at the dock. If it had not taken two minutes to get on board, it certainly took no longer to get on land—warm hands reached toward us: Välkomne—välkomne! Yes—we were saved—we were on dry land.”
The relief is enormous. The uncertainty plaguing them to the last moment is replaced by the assurance that they have made it to safety: “We all hugged each other—and Inger, who before we departed had received a little hip flask from the maid with a little of our own good Cognac, gave us a sip. Allan, who needed to get to the bathroom awfully badly, got a great big soldier who took him by the hand and very decently trudged off with him—yes, the guy was so exhausted that the soldier had to button his pants down and up for him. More and more officers and customs men came. They told us that the previous day 8 refugees had come—others had not reached Ystad—sure enough it was Ystad we had come to. The door to the customs house was opened—and we went in there and got our baggage. We went out again to get a little sun to dry ourselves. A little girl was up in the building with her parents—she opened the window, and lowered apples down to our children.”
Kis’s version is also full of relief: “When we got upstairs, we were received by Swedish sailors who greeted us, Welcome to Sweden. It was a wonderful feeling to be received this way and to know we were in a free country. There were not many dry eyes. Gunnar and I cried and hugged each other and Poul and Inger.
“We were now all led down to the Customs Station, where our bags were examined. We were medically examined, but only for typhoid, as they had heard that it existed in Denmark … and had to tell them how much money we had. It took some time, since we were many. We stood outside in the sun and waited, when a bag of apples was lowered down to the kids from a window above the Customs room. As a whole, all these people were so sweet and cordial that we really felt welcome. I talked to one of the functionaries about the German soldiers that we had left, and he said, ‘They won’t come here,’ and it was really reassuring to see Swedish soldiers everywhere in the harbor.”
The Swedish government’s decision to build up the reception capacity for the refugees from Denmark now showed its strength. The Danes should feel not only that they had reached safety. They should also feel welcome among next of kin. Psychologically this gesture made a deep impression on the fugitives, who had just lived through the opposite experience, being turned from full citizens into lawless refugees. In Poul Hannover’s words:
A doctor was called and examined us—it was typhus they were afraid of—one of Germany’s many blessings. Casual and considerate. The same with customs examination—and with a short report of what kind of money we had. Then we had to leave for the police station—but Miss Ledermann was too exhausted—an ambulance took her. As it could take a while before we got our luggage, I took Inger’s bag—and we went up to the police station. They were so nice and as considerate as you could ask for. I was by the window and was about to fall asleep—but I had to try to get my clothes dry. Allan fell asleep. We were allowed to put him on a couch—he fell asleep immediately. Paperwork first the largest family—it was the Ledermanns—it took quite a long time—then it was our turn. We had visas, so it went pretty quickly. There was something we had to sign—we woke Allan up—but he was so out of sorts that we had to give up. They asked if we wanted to be in a first-class hotel and phoned the Hotel Continental and ordered rooms. To get Allan down there, we had to take a car. We
got two rooms—one for the children and one for us—Kis and Gunnar got a room big enough for all four. Inger got Allan undressed—his clothes had not come—he was already asleep—she got Mette washed while I rushed to the phone and began to call.
Poul now reconnected to contacts and business links he could draw on. He needed to get family matters organized, and especially to obtain and share information on the fate of family members and friends—and, vice versa, to spread the message that the two small families were now safe in Ystad. Yet they knew nothing of the fate that had befallen their closest kin—just as little as anyone knew that they had come to a safe harbor.
The police report from the interrogation of Poul Hannover and the other refugees, immediately upon arrival, still exists. Each person gives a brief account of the last days’ dramatic events. The short reports in general confirm the diaries but also show something else: The relief was great, but there was also caution. Hannover was asked to explain his escape route, and he tells the main features of the story—but without the critical details that would expose those who had helped along the way. Here it appears that the family had slept in the open, and that the contact with the fisherman in Stubbekøbing was purely coincidental. Poul Hannover also indicates he paid six thousand kroner for the contact—but not the payment for the actual transfer—maybe in order to protect the three Danish fishermen. The police in Ystad note that Poul Hannover on arrival was in possession of 2,345 Danish kroner and Gunnar Marcus something similar.8