The German Girl

by Lily Graham

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, going through the stack of books that lay untouched on her bed. They were a mix of non-fiction titles – books on nature and wildlife – and fiction, classic tales that Trine had hand-picked from a second-hand bookshop in Elsinore in order to tempt her niece; so far nothing had worked.

  ‘Books, what else?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said, picking up a non-fiction title about the birds of Denmark and turning the pages. ‘I prefer animals, myself,’ he said, staring at the pictures.

  Bjørn chose that moment to leave Asta’s side, jump off the bed, then place his large golden head in the boy’s lap.

  Asta frowned, annoyed at them both. ‘Birds are animals.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, wondering what they taught this boy at school; certainly nothing about manners or catching a hint…

  ‘What’s your favourite animal?’ he asked. ‘Mine’s a dog, obviously, but I have always been partial to horses too. Also insects, I know it’s weird, and girls like you never understand that…’

  She glared at him. ‘I love insects,’ she said.

  ‘Oh good,’ he said, which was when she realised maybe she could have got him to go away by lying as he proceeded to speak to her at length about them. Despite herself, she found that she was sitting up a little straighter, and while somewhat irritated, she was more engaged than she had been in months.

  After that he came by most days.

  Asta hated it when Oliver came over. He was the sort of boy you were meant to like. He was sweet and kind and helpful and Asta absolutely loathed the very sight of him.

  He whistled when he entered the cabin, and Bjørn, her beloved furry companion, would betray her with the rapid beat of his ridiculously fluffy tail.

  ‘We are meant to be friends,’ she told the dog. ‘That means loyalty. Dammit, you’re a dog, it’s supposed to be hard-wired inside of you.’

  ‘What is supposed to be hard-wired in him?’ asked Oliver, in his perfectly acceptable German, a pleasant voice that grated on her every nerve.

  She ignored him.

  The dog’s tail started to thrash wildly in glee. She shot the dog a dirty look, and said, ‘A cat would understand.’

  Bjørn just looked from her to Oliver, the way that a friend will try to make you see the value in their other friends – a venture that is often somehow doomed to failure.

  ‘You want to go for a walk, Asta? It’s a lovely day.’

  Asta looked out of the window and frowned. ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘I know – it’s exciting.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘But have you ever watched the rain as it falls into the sea? We could get umbrellas and watch the waves crash?’

  She closed her eyes. She was not a nasty person. Or violent, but this boy was testing her. ‘No, Oliver, I don’t want to go out into the rain or watch the waves crash, sorry… I have in fact just spent the past six months trying to recover from pneumonia as you might recall, considering here I still am, in this house.’

  ‘Oh… I suppose I didn’t think of that.’ He wasn’t down for long. ‘Bjørn?’ he asked. ‘You want to go?’

  And the dog leapt out of the bed so fast that Asta shook her head, and shouted, ‘Brutus.’

  By the first of September, Germany invaded Poland, and just two days later France and Britain declared war.

  It was a long autumn, and people were afraid of the future, and as it gave way to winter, it was even worse as the fear and panic grew as nothing much seemed to happen for a while. It was also almost a year since Asta had come to live with Trine.

  Oliver’s influence had made a big difference. She went outside more often, and was persuaded into going on walks with him and the dog.

  Trine was making a stew. She arranged the items on her counter and sighed. Since September’s declaration of war there had been major shortages. Despite Denmark and the neighbouring countries of Norway and Sweden declaring themselves neutral, the country had been in a constant state of readiness. Stockpiling had created a problem, as people loaded up on sugar, coffee, soap, toilet tissue and cleaning supplies. Trine had resisted stockpiling herself but she could understand. The only things she had stocked up on were coffee and sugar. She hadn’t been proud of herself but she wasn’t as bad as the others. A woman in her office had an entire spare room filled with toilet tissue, which Trine thought was exactly the sort of stupid thing that led to unnecessary shortages. All Trine had was a few weeks’ extra supply. Later, though, she would regret not being a little more like that woman.

  Since the Russians had bombarded Finland three weeks before on 30 November, the idea of any kind of peace was long dismissed. The Danes listened to the news anxiously. There were rumours… wild rumours that Hitler had been taken and put in a padded cell. Across Western Europe, there were many who hoped that was true, considering what they’d allowed to happen with the Soviets and their invasions.

  Trine sighed, then cut up the shin for the stew. In two days’ time, it would be 1940. She just hoped that the new year would bring about something good.

  She looked up when Asta came to sit at the table, and put on her boots.

  ‘Where are you’re going?’ she asked.

  Then she heard it. Oliver’s whistle from outside. It was some jaunty tune.

  Asta rolled her eyes. ‘It’s like he lives on another planet.’

  Trine grinned, then added one of her three rather precious carrots. There had been a kerfuffle at the grocer’s the day before, and that’s all she’d got. She stared at them fondly, like orange and purple jewels.

  ‘So you still despise him?’ she asked. It had been six months, but Asta still refused to admit that they were friends.

  Asta looked up. ‘I don’t despise him. He just irritates me.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re going to go walking with him.’

  ‘Well, see, if I don’t then he doesn’t leave – he’ll just stay here all day, and Bjørn will just go to him like he’s made of sweets.’

  Trine hid a smile. The girl seemed to believe that the dog was hers, forgetting that if anyone was entitled to the dog’s loyalty it was Trine. But she didn’t mind. She was glad that Asta was feeling something – for so long the girl had been living with an inconsolable grief, followed by a numb apathy; irritation was good. It was the sort of thing that got you out of bed.

  ‘That sounds sensible.’

  Asta shrugged. ‘We walk – then he leaves, it’s better.’

  It was.

  Trine had to give the boy credit – he knew what he was doing.

  Trine and Asta listened to the bells on the radio, bringing in the new year. Asta wasn’t the only one with tears in her eyes wondering what it would bring. Famous poets from the Nordic countries read out poems about being stoic. That’s all they could be now, standing on a knife-edge wondering what would happen to them.

  ‘In a month, we’d be turning eighteen,’ said Asta. ‘We had such plans.’ She stared out at the lights of the harbour. ‘Jürgen wanted to study art – you should have seen his sketches,’ she said, her face crumpling for a moment, ‘and I was going to study veterinary science.’ She looked at Bjørn fondly.

  ‘You still could,’ said Trine. ‘Here in Denmark, they haven’t forbidden it like they did for the Jews in Germany.’

  Asta continued to stare unseeing out the window, then shook her head. ‘I feel as if that dream belonged to a different girl.’

  Trine shrugged. ‘For now, maybe,’

  Asta nodded. ‘Even so, it’s time I did something. I think being busy would help. A job, maybe.’

  Trine nodded and, ever practical, she went to fetch that day’s paper where the new job listings were posted, along with something else. ‘I got this for you – I didn’t want to rush you – but, well… I think at some point you will need to learn it,’ said Trine, handing her niece a book. It was a German to Danish language book. She’d picked it up at the b
ookshop around the corner from the Elsinore Gazette, but had kept it aside, because there was no point in rushing the child until she was ready.

  Asta had picked up a few words and phrases – mostly insults – which she’d used on Oliver, to his delight.

  Asta held the book in her hands and frowned.

  A job would mean that she would need to learn Danish; her aunt was right. As she stared at it, she realised it was time that she acknowledged something else too – something until then she hadn’t allowed herself to fully realise – this was her life now. Here in Denmark.

  Asta took a breath and nodded. ‘Today seems like a good day to start.’

  22

  Flensburg, 1940

  Jürgen was being transferred. ‘Good news,’ said one of the officers, coming into his hospital room. The male nurse that had tormented Jürgen since his first day was gloating too.

  He had spent the past year battling illness after illness, as his wounds took forever to heal, due in part to the poor treatment he suffered.

  ‘Now that you’ve recovered you get to go work off your crime, at Dachau – helping to build the sort of weapons that almost killed you. This time, they’re going to build better ones so they don’t make that mistake again – letting you live.’

  The officer threw him a set of clothes – a pair of second-hand trousers, a shirt and a very thin woollen jumper – and told him to get changed.

  ‘How can I?’ he asked, lifting a wrist, which had been manacled to the iron bed.

  It was a precaution they’d started taking after his second escape attempt. His first had been too early in his recovery, and he’d only got as far as the other side of the room before he was whisked back into bed.

  The second time, he’d almost made it out of the building, as he’d managed to steal the nurse’s key from his back pocket after he decided to taunt him and they had got into a fist fight. Jürgen had been beaten to within an inch of his life, but all he’d been interested in was getting the key, which he’d clutched in his hand, and later hidden in his mattress until there was a shift change.

  That attempt had earned him being handcuffed to the bed and an extra month inside the hospital.

  All he could think about was the Dane.

  He’d shown up a few weeks after he’d first arrived at hospital. Jürgen’s eyes had widened in shock. The man was dressed smarter than when he’d seen him last, in pair of formal trousers and a white shirt, with city shoes. But he had the same beard, the same unruly dark blond hair.

  Jürgen would have known that scruffy face and boxer’s build anywhere. It was the man who’d carried Asta away, screaming. The ranger.

  Before Jürgen could scream at him, demand where he’d taken her, he’d said, ‘I realise you have never seen my face before—’ Jürgen had opened his mouth to argue, but he’d continued. ‘I hear that your sister ran away – and you are looking for her. I would like to help you find her…’

  Jürgen had stared. ‘I was shot but I saw what happened!’

  ‘That’s good – so you can tell us where she is hiding, do you think?’

  Jürgen blinked. The man looked from Jürgen to the officer who was taking notes. Was this man trying to tell him something?

  ‘You will help us all by telling us where she is headed – we know that she crossed the border into Denmark illegally, although how she managed it is a miracle; had Blomkvist not been face down in a ditch I dare say it would never have happened.’

  ‘Never,’ said Kalle Blomkvist, shooting Jürgen a meaningful look.

  Finally, Jürgen understood. Asta was safe. She was in Denmark.

  ‘Did you have some plan – some family or friends or anyone there? Technically, we cannot extradite her yet… until we know where she is.’

  Jürgen thought hard; he had to lie so convincingly that it took them in the wrong direction. Then remembered something Esther had said. ‘Copenhagen. That’s where we were headed. There was a friend of my father’s – a doctor, Heinkel. We thought maybe he could help.’

  ‘That’s good. Very good. And did this Dr Heinkel know to expect you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We will find out, boy.’

  Jürgen shrugged. It was the truth, if someone named Dr Heinkel actually existed… he would have had no idea because Jürgen had made him up.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ said the Dane. ‘I am Kalle – Kalle Blomkvist, by the way. I hope one day you get to see your sister again.’

  Jürgen had blinked at him. ‘Thank you.’

  When the pair left, he heard the officer ask why he’d given his name. ‘Oh, I don’t know, shouldn’t I have?’

  ‘Makes no difference to me. But see, you can’t do that – you can’t treat them like they’re like us, they’re animals, and they’ll bite you if you let them.’

  Jürgen had held back a bitter laugh. He wasn’t wrong about that – if he ever got the chance, he would do more than bite.

  And now, almost a year later, he was heading to Dachau.

  Was it his chance to see his parents again? How big was it? He’d heard rumours from the officers in the corridors that Germany’s first concentration and labour camp had become overcrowded. They were building more camps like it to house their undesirables. He knew that his parents would hate it if he went, so he had to stay free. He had to find Asta. If what that Dane, Kalle Blomkvist, was trying to tell him was true, she was alive. And he’d given Jürgen something else – his name; maybe that was how he was meant to find her.

  Kalle Blomkvist was worried about the twins. He couldn’t help it – ever since he’d saved Asta he’d felt a need to preserve her liberty, and to help her brother, if he could. He had to be careful – too much interest and that would raise questions. He’d had to bide his time over the months as there had been officers crossing the borders with a sketch of the missing girl. But none seemed more invested in catching her than that officer Smidt – the man who had tried to kill her, only to be thrown off course by her twin, who’d hit him over the head with a log, and survived a round of bullets… just to infuriate him further.

  Ordinarily, it would likely have blown over – but the twins had cost Officer Smidt a promotion; worse, he had been humiliated, his name something of a joke – bested as he’d been by children. He became obsessed with finding her, even though the Danes had long since given up themselves. And as the months bled into the other, his obsession grew, seeing it as the last attempt to revive his career and restore his reputation. Kalle had heard the rumours, of course. Seen how he’d been ridiculed. He sometimes thought that if Officer Smidt had died in the forest like he was supposed to from the blow Jürgen had given him, things might have been easier all round. Though, to be fair, it would have likely cost Jürgen his life. He would have been executed. Instead he was being sent to a labour camp. Something that Smidt had personally arranged.

  Kalle’s grandfather had been in the police service, and he’d told him about the obsessive types. Those were the ones you had to watch your back for.

  Smidt knew that if he could find the girl – even though the other officers had now relegated her to the realm of lost causes – it would go some way in restoring his poor reputation. Kalle was going to make sure that didn’t happen. Just like he was going to make sure that Jürgen didn’t wind up in some awful camp or worse, dead.

  It was stupid, he knew it. He should just stay out of it. Should keep his head down, and just get on with things. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t seem to let it go either.

  Which was why when he heard they were transferring Jürgen, he began to hatch a plan.

  It took a week to realise his scheme. He had to pick a time when the officers were understaffed, when they’d gone to investigate another mass border breach in the forest. He contacted Smidt directly, a day before Jürgen was due to be transferred, telling the officer that he had a new lead on the case. A girl resembling Asta’s appearance had been spotted near Copenhagen – but they needed proof it was the
girl, or so Kalle claimed.

  ‘I need to be able to speak to him to confirm it,’ he said. ‘Denmark police insist upon it.’

  ‘Come first thing tomorrow,’ Smidt said. ‘I’ll meet you at the station.’

  It was a cold grey morning when Kalle walked through the entrance doors of the station only to find Smidt hovering nearby. As soon as he clamped eyes on Kalle in his ranger uniform, his eyes widened in delight.

  ‘I can’t believe it – you think you may have found her?’ he said. He ran a hand through his short red hair in shock. ‘After all this time? And would the Danish police be willing to hand her over – if it’s her?’

  ‘Possibly – yes, if she is indeed a criminal. They are concerned that she is a refugee, you see, considering the rest…’

  Smidt frowned. Had Kalle been German this conversation would have been close to traitorous but he needed him and had to cooperate at least.

  ‘But she’s not a refugee! She struck an officer – it’s a crime, both those twins tried to kill me!’

  Kalle tried to keep his face calm. This wasn’t true at all – Kalle had seen it from the shadows in the forest himself. The only one who’d tried to kill Smidt was Jürgen but it was in self-defence. If this had been his own country he could have attested to that but here it wouldn’t mean anything. Kalle knew that Smidt had pulled a knife on the sister and had fired his weapon upon Jürgen… it was hardly a crime that the Danes would relinquish a refugee for. Still, for now, Smidt did not need to know that.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought…’ he said, nodding his dark blond head, his blue eyes giving nothing away. ‘As you can imagine, the only thing we know for sure about this girl is that she is an escaped Jew – she isn’t speaking, and we can’t turn her over to you until we know it is definitely Asta Schwalbe. However, there is an identifiable mark on the girl’s shoulder – a large birthmark – her twin would be the best person to let us know if that matched hers.’