by Robert Elmer
"Danish, only Danish," she scolded him. "No more German. I'm never speaking that language again, and neither will you."
Her husband frowned but listened.
"This is my brother, Henning." Steffen answered the question, which his high school German had helped him understand. "He's the one with contacts in the Underground, and he's going to be helping arrange your passage to Sweden as soon as he can. Meanwhile, you're going to need to stay here, as quietly as possible, and without showing yourselves in the main or upper portions of the building. Certainly not in the sanctuary. Never in the sanctuary."
"And not here," Henning told them. "Your room's down this hall."
Even with his words of encouragement they didn't move as they looked around the dimly lit back room, as if they still didn't understand. Hanne's mother clung to her daughter's arm, tears welling up in her eyes. Henning looked at them with a puzzled expression.
"They've never been inside this kind of building," Hanne finally explained. "They weren't so sure it was a good idea to come here. I had to convince them."
"Oh, I see." This time Steffen tried to sound reassuring as he led them toward their hiding place. "Well, we've tried to make it as comfortable as possible for you down here. Henning has even helped me prepare some blankets and things for you.Nice and hyggeligt. Cozy, you know? It won't be long before we'll get you a boat and away to Sweden, where you'll be safe.Henning's friends are working at it. Meanwhile, you can be reassured that no one will find you here."
"Absolutely," added Henning, taking a couple of their frayed carpetbags in tow. "And my brother won't make you take communion, either."
Henning was the only one who chuckled at the joke, which seemed so obviously out of place. The refugees looked at one another with worried glances. Still they followed him down the hall toward the hiding place under the stairs.
"I apologize for my brother," Steffen whispered to Hanne as they followed the others down the hall. "He means well.But you'll be comfortable here for the time being."
Hanne shook her head.
"Actually, I'm not going to be staying here," she told him in a low voice.
"What? I thought you—"
"I only came to help my mother and her friends."
"But . . . you're in just as much danger as your mother.Surely you know that. In fact, you must stay here. They'll find you."
Still she shook her head, obviously determined.
"My place is in the hospital. I'm staying in another nurse's apartment, where they won't find me. We've switched identities, as a matter of fact. But I am glad of your help. And your concern."
Steffen felt his mouth gaping, unsure of what else to tell her, or how to convince her to go. The truth was, at the moment he felt a glimmer of something new—something he had not felt before and could perhaps not name. As if he had something to protect.
"We just want to be sure you're all safe," he said.
Perhaps she was right, and the Germans would not catch up to her at the hospital. And if she stayed there a while longer, surely he would see her again. That would be worth looking forward to.
Out of the corner of his eye, though, he thought he noticed a movement in the shadows.
"Fru Husted?" he said. "Margrethe?"
A door slammed at the end of the hallway and Hanne stopped as well.
"Something wrong?" she asked, and of course he didn't want to concern her.
"No, nothing. Just the janitor, I'm sure. She's always puttering around the building." He laughed. "I'm just a little jumpy. Never done this sort of thing, after all. Hiding Jewish refugees, I mean."
She looked at him with understanding in her eyes.
"We're all learning this as we go." She paused. "Thank you."
But as they hurried to catch up to Henning and the others, Steffen couldn't help looking back over his shoulder one more time. An acolyte's robe hanging from a rack in the hallway still swayed in the draft.
13
SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN
FRIDAY EVENING, 1 OKTOBER 1943
A winter long and dark and hard, for five cursed years,
has squeezed the land in its embrace of cold and hunger and want.
—FROM "DANMARK'S FREEDOM SONG"
Sturmbannführer Karl Wolfschmidt checked his watch yet again. Eight minutes to ten. The broad-shouldered young truck driver beside him stretched his well-muscled wrestler's neck, looking straight ahead, waiting for the next command.
"Seven minutes," said Wolfschmidt, now tapping his fingertips on the metal dashboard and looking out into the darkness. Just ahead and to the right, the familiar Jewish synagogue's façade showed brightly enough to be seen even at this time of night. Adjacent to the synagogue stood the Jewish home for the aged. They would have no problem finding their way.
And yes, this operation would go smoothly, there could be no doubt. This time, the catch would be better than just an outdated Jewish community membership roster. He would see to that. What's more, Berlin would be sure to hear how well they carried out their duties tonight. They would hear how well the Sturmbannführer had led his men. He would see to that, as well.
In the darkness he couldn't read the wrinkled piece of paper folded in the breast pocket of his tunic, his orders and instructions for the operation. But he didn't need to. Instead he pulled it out and turned away from the young driver, then held the paper out the open window and up to the end of his cigarette. He blew on the orange spark. A moment later the paper burst into flames as he held it gingerly by his fingertips, watching it burn. The driver watched out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. He obviously couldn't know that Wolfschmidt had his own ideas on how to get results tonight—and that they would be better ideas than these weak "suggestions" from Berlin.
"Let's go," said Wolfschmidt, dropping the last of his burning paper to the street. Enough time waiting. Enough time talking. Time to act. He popped open his door and slapped the side of the truck three times, his signal to alert the squad of soldiers waiting inside the covered back end. He raised his voice, now that his timeline had begun. It would not matter now if anyone else heard them. It was too late for anyone to whimper for help.
"Raus!" he shouted, strutting toward the open tailgate."Out! What are you boys waiting for? A written invitation? We have work to do, and not much time to do it!"
With that his troops bounded from the back of the truck, one of them slipping and nearly falling. Clumsy. They would need to perform better than this if they were ever going to bring credit to the Reich and the Führer. And where were all the others? Wolfschmidt berated the clumsy soldier and pointed him to the building next to the synagogue, a similarlooking blond brick structure facing Krystalgade. Idiots.
By that time perhaps a dozen other trucks had also pulled up in front of the old-age home, and not a moment too soon.He caught a beam of a headlight to check his time once again. Six minutes before the hour. Better a little early, he always thought. This war could be won or lost by punctuality, efficiency, and attention to detail.
Steffen grabbed the phone on his desk off the hook before it had a chance to ring twice. Never mind the late hour.
"How are your guests?" asked Henning, not even waiting for Steffen to say hello, and certainly not identifying himself.
"Godt. They're quite well, thank you." Steffen rubbed the sleep from his eyes and the drool from the corner of his mouth, all the time wondering how long he'd been sitting here with his face planted on his desk. "Ready to leave, but well."
"All right, good." Henning lowered his voice, as if that would make a difference. "We're going to be ready for them within twenty-four hours, I think. I've almost got it arranged."
"Good. I'm already running out of food for them, and none of it kosh—"
He bit his tongue and could almost feel the heat from Henning's end of the call. They both knew of the very real possibility that someone could be listening in to the conversation.
"All right, forget it. Stop by to
morrow morning. Look for The Little Match Girl."
That would be the signal book this time in the window of the Ibsen Boghandel. All right then. But now that Steffen's mind had cleared just a little more, he had to know something else.
"Wait; don't hang up. I just thought of something. The, the . . ." He struggled to veil his thoughts to anyone who might be listening in, if that were possible. Honestly, though, how could the Nazis have enough ears to hear so many conversations? Finally he gave up. "The old people, Henning! Next to the . . . you know. Has anyone warned them? Do you know?"
The other end of the line hung silent for a long moment, seasoned only by a ubiquitous background hiss. Henning would have no answer, until finally:
"We're doing what we can, okay? You can't help everybody.Sit tight until I—"
The rest of Henning's sentence was cut off, leaving the telephone deathly silent.
"Henning?" asked Steffen, pressing the receiver to his ear, wondering what had happened and realizing he had just repeated his brother's name once more. All this secretive business. "Are you there?"
But Henning had obviously been cut off, along with all telephone service. While that could happen occasionally in wartime København, the timing seemed odd, indeed. Had someone been listening in, after all? He looked at his watch.Ten o'clock exactly.
So Steffen hung up the phone, praying he had not compromised his brother's efforts. Surely not. But the thought of several dozen old Jewish people sitting helplessly in their rooms, while soldiers came to drag them away. . . . Surely the Nazis would not consider them a threat. He couldn't picture such a thing, but there was much about this war he could not picture.
Instead, he made his way to the church's front entry, stepping out into the night for a breath of fresh air and a way to clear his thoughts.
This can't be happening, he told himself. But his words fell short of convincing as a large gray truck careened around the corner and skidded to a stop with a squealing of brakes, directly in front of an apartment block across the street and only a couple of doors down. Steffen gasped quietly and drew back inside, ready to bolt the door against any intruders who would come for his "guests." He needn't have worried, as a squad of five or six German soldiers jumped from the back of the truck and, ignoring the church, hurried inside the apartment building. An officer in a distinctive peaked hat followed them at a slower pace, his hands knit behind his back.
Within seconds Steffen heard the crashing of what sounded like splintering wood—doors being smashed in, perhaps—and then shouting. None of them sounded pleased, particularly not when they reappeared outside a few short minutes later.
"I promise you, sir," one of the soldiers told the officer, now pacing the sidewalk in front of the building. "We looked everywhere. We looked in the right apartments."
"Then why aren't you out here with sixteen Jews, obergefreiter?"
By this time the lance corporal's voice trembled.
"Just like the last place, sir. There was just no one home.They must have known we were coming."
The officer leaned in so closely to the other man's face that Steffen could barely make out the words. Even so, there was no mistaking the venom they contained.
"And how could something like that have happened, do you suppose?"
Fortunately for the lance corporal, his officer didn't wait for the answer. Instead he backhanded the lance corporal's chest in obvious frustration and marched back to the truck.
"We'll be on our way, obergefreiter. We still have several more addresses on our list. They couldn't have just disappeared, every last stinking one of them!"
"No, sir, they couldn't have. We'll find them, wherever they're hiding. Just like we find rats, hiding in the kitchen."
The lance corporal scrambled to pull the others in line and jump once more into the back of the truck. Meanwhile the officer paused to look around the dark neighborhood, focusing on the steeple at Sankt Stefan's while Steffen stiffened in his hiding place.
Hanne lay in the darkness, heart pounding, unable to sleep. With every sound she held her breath, listening. Here, a steam pipe rumbled and creaked as the heat came on in the hospital building, with its peculiar ping, ping, ping—as if it might explode at any moment.
That much sounded familiar, though the strange apartment she had moved into offered none of the same comfort, except a thin promise of safety. Despite the warmth of her wool blanket, she shivered and burrowed deeper into her hiding place, playing and replaying what most certainly could be happening outside in the city and beyond. She imagined soldiers knocking down doors all around her little country, doors identified by brass plates engraved with names like Rubenstein or Levin. Not the usual Danish names, certainly, but still no less Danish.
A breeze rustled her blackout shade, reminding her that the draft came from a window cracked wider than she had intended. She turned over, burying her face in the thin pillow, which carried the faint scent of powdered cleaning soap. She didn't want to listen, just couldn't help it. The window shade rustled even more, and she imagined someone crawling in from the courtyard outside. Only this was the third floor. Still her mind raced.
Would the soldiers see past their scam and find their way back to this apartment, a floor above and half a building away? Would they believe Ann-Grete if she told them that Hanne Abrahamsen no longer worked at Bispebjerg Hospital, no longer lived here in the nurses' apartments? Or would she change her mind and perhaps lead them back to her old apartment? Under threat of violence, Hanne would not blame her friend if she betrayed this fragile trust. Honestly, Hanne could not say what she herself might do, if roles were reversed and it was she who faced the barrel of a German rifle.She might herself crumble, too.
"It's okay, Ann-Grete," she whispered into the pillow. "I won't hold it against you."
A door slammed somewhere below, and she dug her fingernails into the edge of her blanket. This could be it. She imagined where she had left her clothes in this unfamiliar space, and wondered how long it would take her to dress if someone suddenly pounded at her door. She would not, she decided, come to the door in only a nightgown and robe. No.She would open the door fully dressed and hair combed, or they would simply have to break down the door. If that's what they wanted to do, she could do nothing to stop it.
She turned over again and sat up straight.
Breathe, she told herself. Slow down.
But she could not, as voices and shouts below told her that something was going on. And if they found her here in this strange apartment, would they not find the other Jews hiding in the tunnels below the hospital campus? Or worse yet, in the basement of Steffen Petersen's church? Surely someone would tell them.
She whispered a desperate prayer, and found herself repeating the words of the Hebrew traveler's prayer. She thought it strange how it came back so easily, the words, so long after the train ride she had taken with her mother, when she was twelve, and Mor had recited it aloud right there in the train station:
V'tatzilenu mi-kaf kol oyev . . .
May You rescue us from the hand of every foe, ambush along the way, and from all manner of punishments that assemble to come to earth.
She heard more shouting, sharp men's voices, obviously in German. Then heavy footsteps in a hurry, growing louder.
Barukh atah Adonai sho'me'a t'fila.
Blessed are You, Adonai, Who hears prayer.
Did He? Now Hanne heard a woman's voice, muffled but pleading, repeating words Hanne couldn't make out.And for a moment Hanne considered getting up and stepping outside to give herself up. Others should not suffer on her behalf.
Instead she found herself praying that she could disappear completely under the covers. She knew she should slip out and get dressed, but that meant she would have to turn on a light. And a light might attract attention. She could not make her legs move. She shivered uncontrollably.
And now she pulled the covers well over her head, pulling herself into a fetal position, listening and shivering.A
nd she decided it was even worse knowing what danger approached—much worse than not knowing and simply being surprised once. She decided she would rather be ignorant of the danger, than recognize it coming closer and closer.Either way, she could do nothing to change what was happening outside her door.
"The door!" Sturmbannführer Wolfschmidt shouted to his men, then pointed at two other trucks. "You and you, take up positions around the alleyway and the back of the building.Hurry! You're late. I want no one leaving this place unless it's in front of your weapon, and then into the back of your truck."
So it would be. Wolfschmidt promised himself that he would see to every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem to someone else. That was their problem. No one ever cared about the details the way he did. But this time, nothing would be overlooked, and no opportunity missed. As he headed for the entry he nodded back at his driver, who pulled out the thick metal bar they'd stowed behind the seats. Now he brought it with him towards the door. Details.
"They're not answering the doorbell, Herr Sturmbannführer!" A panicked schütze looked back at Wolfschmidt as he stepped up to the street entrance. "And our orders say to avoid—"
"Shut up and step aside, private. Your orders are what I tell you." Wolfschmidt wore the gray ashes of their orders on the soles of his boots. Didn't they know? He waved for his assistant to proceed, while the cluster of gray-suited troops hovered in position, ready to spring. They'd brought 150 troops to secure this position, which under normal circumstances would prove more than adequate.