The Beekeeper's Ball

by Susan Wiggs

  “No, but I’ll find it. What time?”

  “The usual.”

  Twenty past eight in the evening—the time settled on in order to simplify communications.

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “Will you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Are you all right?”

  She stared at him. Her eyes were as hard as stone walls. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “It’s just that...I was wondering.”

  “There’s no need.” She fell silent, and Magnus could detect a hardness in her manner that hadn’t been there before. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, if the pressures of the occupation were wearing on her, if she feared being caught and arrested. He wanted to say something that might ease the lines of worry in her face, the way he might have done for anyone he was concerned about. But he didn’t know how to be a friend to anyone these days. He was simply a machine, not even that; a cog in the wheel of the resistance. He had no business worrying about anyone but himself.

  When the whistle blew to signal the halftime of the match, she dropped her scarf on the ground and walked away. Magnus picked up the scarf and let out a cheer, but he couldn’t focus on the game. He watched her go, moving slowly as though carrying a great weight on her shoulders. But he didn’t follow her. These days, he didn’t follow anything but orders.

  * * *

  At the meeting on the following Thursday, Magnus was still burning with questions. He arrived at the appointed time, slipping down an alleyway beside the Hørkramforretning—the drysalter shop where medicines were prepared. The basement door was marked with a charcoal smear. “Delivery for Mr. Christiansen,” he muttered, letting himself in. The code phrase was accepted, and he found himself ushered into a crowded room.

  It was the biggest gathering he had ever attended, with at least three dozen people present. They were mostly men, but the group included a few women, including Annelise, who sat very still on a bench on the periphery of the room.

  Magnus was shocked to recognize Mr. Knud Christiansen himself, a prominent citizen who hobnobbed with the Nazis. As handsome as any Aryan ideal, he was famous for his athletic prowess on the Danish Olympic rowing team. He lived in a fancy apartment in Havnegade alongside German officials, and as far as the Nazis knew, he was a loyal collaborator.

  This, of course, made him a key asset for the resistance. He could move freely among the officials in charge, and he had cultivated their friendship so that they would speak freely in his presence. They would be shocked to see him tonight sitting shoulder to shoulder with Rabbi Melchior, head of the synagogue in Copenhagen.

  “I can confirm the rumors,” said Mr. Christiansen. He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then his jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth. “The maritime attaché, Mr. Duckwitz, has let it be known that the SS plans to initiate a mass roundup of the Jews on October the first. They’re to be deported, most probably to a camp called Theresienstadt in occupied Czechoslovakia.”

  A chill rippled through the room like an ill wind. Everyone present understood what a “camp” was—a center where Jews and other “undesirables” were worked to death or murdered outright.

  “Duckwitz is a Nazi. Why would he warn us?” someone asked.

  “Apparently the man has a conscience.”

  “I heard he went to Berlin to persuade the central authority to cancel the arrests,” said a man in a white cloth coat. “And when he was ignored, he went to Sweden to get assurance from the Prime Minister there that they’d be willing to receive refugees, same as they have all along.”

  “But so many. There are thousands in the city and all up along the coast.”

  They looked to Rabbi Melchior. “I shall tell everyone at services to go into hiding immediately. They’ll be instructed to spread the word to all their Jewish friends and relatives.”

  “We can all go door to door,” said a man called Marius, whom Magnus recognized as one of the leaders of the resistance cell. “We can get on the telephone. We know who these people are, better than the Nazis do. They’re our neighbors, people we do business with.”

  “It’s a risk, but what else can we do?”

  “Some might not agree to leave,” one man pointed out. “They’re Danes, after all, even the immigrants who came from Eastern Europe seeking safety. They have their places in the community, their homes and families. Will they agree to leave everything behind?”

  Magnus thought of Uncle Sweet and Eva, disappearing in the night with only a satchel of the most basic belongings. He made a silent vow to travel up the coast to Helsingør and find them before the deportations began.

  “Is that going to be enough, to simply spread the word?”

  “Of course not,” someone else said.

  “He’s right. The one thing we can’t do is ignore the situation. People can only hide for so long. Eventually they’ll be found and taken.”

  “Not if we can get them to Sweden.”

  “Yes, they must go to Sweden.”

  “They’re in jeopardy of being turned away. The Swedish government won’t accept them unless the Nazis approve the request.”

  “The Nazis are ignoring the request. We’ll never hear from them.”

  Ramon Maldonado arrived, dropping his messenger bag with a clatter. He was breathless as he handed something to Marius. “It’s a telegram. The one you’ve been waiting for.”

  “Let me see that.” Mr. Christiansen looked at the ceiling. “Thank you, Professor Bohr.”

  “Who’s that?” someone asked.

  “Neils Bohr. A physicist at the university. He and his brother were nearly arrested, but they made it to Sweden with their families. According to this communique, he has the ear of the whole world, not just the Swedish authorities. He’s convinced the government there to make a general announcement that the borders and ports are open to refugees. It says here there will be Swedish radio broadcasts announcing that Sweden is offering asylum.”

  “Just like a good Jewish boy.” Marius gave a satisfied nod. “His mother was Jewish.”

  Ramon took a seat on a bench next to Magnus and nudged his elbow into Magnus’s ribs. “Good work,” he whispered. “You, too,” he added, leaning forward to include Annelise, who sat on Magnus’s other side.

  “It’s not good to simply know what’s about to happen and to warn people,” she whispered back. “We have to do more.”

  * * *

  True to his word, Rabbi Melchior warned people attending early morning Rosh Hashanah services of the impending German action. He urged everyone to go into hiding, with an eye to making their way in secret to Sweden. No one knew how long the deportation order would stand or how long the war would last, so it was the safest course to take.

  Other members of the Jewish community and of the resistance movement sent word through the underground telegraph system. Everyone tried to do their part, even little old ladies who stayed up all night going through the telephone directory, picking out the Jewish-sounding names and calling people to warn them of the roundup.

  Magnus told Ramon and Annelise of his plan to find Sweet and Eva. “I need you to drive me,” he said to Ramon. “You have access to a Red Cross vehicle, yes?”

  “I do. How far is it?”

  “About forty kilometers. The trick will be to find the house where they’ve been staying. I don’t have the precise location.”

  “Eva and her father have been living above a bake shop along the strand, not far from Kronborg Castle,” Annelise said quietly.

  “You know them?” Magnus was amazed.

  “Eva and I are friends. And I’m going with you,” Annelise announced.

  * * *

  The lovely seaside town of Helsingør, with its fairy-tale castle, its farms and fishing fleet,
was the last place many Jews would ever feel the soil of Denmark beneath their feet. A few thousand meters across the sound lay Sweden...and safety. Officials who bothered to question the fishermen and ferrymen were told various tales about the hundreds of families hastily boarding the local boats. Some were going by water to attend their sewing club. Others to visit sick friends. Still others were braving the foul weather to cast their nets for the abundant herring.

  The only story no one told was the truth; that people were avoiding deportation by fleeing across the Oresund Strait to Sweden. Magnus felt a fierce pride in his countrymen who risked themselves to save the lives of people who lived in Denmark, regardless of who they were, even if it meant defying the authorities.

  They watched a trio of lopsided boats leaning into the wind, the waves striking hard against the small hulls as the small fleet departed. “How can we be sure Eva and her father made it to Sweden?” asked Annelise.

  “Show us where they lived,” Magnus said. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he felt a sting of apprehension.

  The place above the bake shop was deserted. Everything seemed left as if they had just stepped out briefly. A boot tray with a pair of wooden garden clogs lay by the door. There was a pitcher of milk on the table, a skin forming on the top. An ashtray containing the remains of a hand-rolled cigarette sat on the painted enamel table. An armoire with its doors agape stood half empty.

  There was a peculiar smell in the air. Metallic and strange.

  “Word must have reached them already,” Magnus said, standing at the front window and looking out at the town. He pictured Eva walking through the charming cobblestone streets, or passing by the beautiful castle, admiring its spires against a sunny sky, or perhaps playing on the sandy beach across from the strand, able to see Sweden on a clear day. He wondered if he would ever meet her again, and felt a twist of emotion in his gut.

  “We should go,” Ramon said. “There’s more to be done in the city.”

  Magnus wondered if the smell came from Sweet’s photographic chemicals. Maybe they’d been spilled during the hasty departure. He glanced down at the floor and noticed a trail of dark spots leading toward a windowless back room.

  And that was when he knew.

  They found Sweet’s body, broken in too many places to count, lying in a heap. Annelise turned and buried her face in her hands. They made a thorough search for Eva, dreading what they might find. But to their relief, there was no sign of her. Magnus stood unmoving, wishing his last glimpse of the man he’d loved and admired had not been this. Then he remembered every detail of Eva, the way she liked to make a wish on dandelion puffs, the way her eyes lit up when he explained to her how Christmas worked, the sound of her laughter, the silence of her sadness. She would be nearly grown now.

  * * *

  Back in Copenhagen, the Waffen SS had formed teams of police battalions with a Danish collaborator on each team to lead them on their hunt for the Jews. It was the Jewish new year, and the Germans assumed families would make the process simple for them by being at home for the holiday. Yet as the teams moved through the city with their transport vehicles and list of addresses to check, they encountered empty homes, time and time again.

  Someone in the underground told Magnus about a Jewish family called Friediger in the east harbor district whom no one had been able to contact. He was to find his way to an address near Langelinie to make certain the family had gone into hiding. To his horror, he looked into the window and saw that they were still at home, gathered around the dining table, eating apples dipped in honey and sharing a loaf of golden braided challah bread.

  He pounded on the door but didn’t bother to wait for an answer. The door wasn’t locked, so he burst inside. “I’ve come to warn you that you must leave,” he said without preamble. “Now. The Waffen SS has sent out teams to find all the Jews in the city. If they find you, they’ll arrest you and take you away for deportation.”

  “We are aware of the order,” said a man with a gray beard. He wore a white cap embroidered with blue on his bald head. “We have decided to stay together as a family. My wife’s parents are too elderly to be moved, and my daughter has a new baby.” He gestured at the people gathered around the table, indicating an old woman in a wheelchair seated next to an old man whose hands shook with palsy. Mr. Friediger’s wife and daughter were on the opposite side of the table, a tiny swaddled bundle in the daughter’s arms.

  “You don’t understand. If you don’t get away now, you’ll be taken,” Magnus said.

  “We have money for bribes,” the man answered. “Listen, young man, your concern is well-founded, but the decision has been made. It is the birthday of the new year. We shall celebrate as we always have.”

  Magnus thought about the night his own family had been taken. There had been no warning, no offer from anyone to help get them into hiding. In one brutal intrusion, his parents had been taken. Dear God, if they’d had even a moment of advance warning, he might still have a family. This was a gift, and the man didn’t seem to understand that. His temper snapped. “Don’t be stupid,” he yelled, looking around the table. “What good is it to stay together as a family if you’re going to be shipped to a death camp?”

  “Young man—”

  “I can help you. I’ll get you on a boat—”

  “Papa, maybe we should listen to him,” said the daughter.

  There was a pounding at the door, and the tiny baby let out a wail.

  “Police,” called a voice from outside. “Open up.”

  Magnus’s pulse surged. “Put out the lights. Is there a back door?”

  The man stood up. “Look at them,” he said with quiet resignation, gesturing at his family. “Can you truly think we can sneak away in the night? Now, the back door is through there. I suggest you make use of it. I can deal with the police.”

  The baby’s cries sounded like the mewing of a kitten. With unhurried deliberation, Mr. Friediger went to answer the door. Seething with frustration, Magnus headed for the back of the house, lingering behind the pantry door. Perhaps Friediger knew something Magnus did not, and they would be left alone.

  There was a shuffle of heavy footsteps. “You are to come with us,” said an officious voice in German-accented Danish. “You may each bring two blankets, food for three days’ travel and one small suitcase per person. Be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “I can offer you fifteen thousand kroner,” Friediger said calmly. “It is all the cash we have.”

  “Why would you think for a moment we’d accept a bribe?” the German demanded, and Magnus heard the sound of coins, spilling across the floor.

  * * *

  On October second, Ramon, Magnus and Annelise saw about two hundred Jews forced to board the ship Wartheland. Magnus’s gaze combed the crowd for a glimpse of Eva. Each time he saw a girl with thick dark braids, he stiffened, thinking he’d spotted her. But she didn’t appear to be in the group being forced aboard the ship.

  “I feel sick,” Annelise murmured, “but I can’t look away.”

  Magnus understood her horror. The victims were entirely innocent; they were mothers cradling infants in their arms, elderly citizens bent over their canes, sick people coughing into wadded up handkerchiefs, a rabbi carrying a book and a flimsy suitcase. The guards screamed at them, kicked and beat them as they drove them belowdecks, seizing their luggage with impunity.

  A young couple stepped out of the shuffling line and approached a guard. “There’s been a mistake,” the man said. “We’re not Jewish.”

  “Shit,” said Magnus under his breath. “That’s not going to work.” He started walking toward them.

  Ramon grabbed his arm. “What the hell are you doing? You’re going to be taken if you—”

  “Then so be it,” Magnus snapped. He strode forward. “Sir, I can vouch for them,” he stated. “
These two don’t belong here.”

  “Who are you?” the guard demanded.

  Magnus thought fast. “I was with the search team covering Langelinie.”

  The guard glared at the couple and then at Magnus. “Wait here,” he said. “I must go and check on something.”

  While he went over to consult with his superior, Magnus leaned forward and whispered, “What is your name?”

  “Jan and Marte Sonne. I am a brick mason, born and raised right here in the city.” The man’s voice shook. “Please, can you help? My wife is expecting our first child.”

  The guard returned with the officer, who showed them a hardbound leather book. “Your name is here, on the census record,” the officer said. “You are listed as a member of the synagogue. How can that be a mistake?”

  “He’s a mason,” Magnus said. “He was teaching me the trade, doing repairs at the synagogue. You know, after last year’s incident,” he added, referring to the explosion at the synagogue. “That is why his name is on the list.”

  The officer snapped the book shut. “Step out of line. We will verify this later.”

  “I’ll wait with them over there.” Magnus made a vague gesture toward the street, having no intention of waiting, of course. As he escorted the couple away from the line of people, the guards were distracted and the couple ducked into a shop.

  “Where the hell is she?” Magnus asked Ramon, still thinking of Eva. “I’m going to get on that ship.”

  “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. If they catch you, they’ll kill you.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think she’s not worth it?”

  “You’ll be useless to her if you’re dead,” Ramon stated.

  “Distract them,” Magnus said to Annelise.

  “But I—”

  “Just do it.”

  She set her mouth into a seam of fury, but strode forward and approached a guard who was loitering on the quay. He couldn’t hear what she said to him, but when the guard looked away, he loaded a crate onto a hand truck and wheeled it toward the transport ship. He got as far as the loading plank when a sharp command hit him like a blow: “Halt.”