by Robert Elmer
Everyone in the room turned to look at them, two kids with rumpled clothes and dumb, sleepy expressions on their faces. Mrs. Lumby and Henrik’s mom looked as if they had been crying.
Then Mrs. Melchior looked right at Peter and smiled kindly—the way she had the night before when he was feeling awkward at the dinner table. “Peter, you’re welcome to stay for breakfast,” she said, “but I think it would be best if you returned home very soon. For your safety. Mr. Melchior has just called your father.”
“But, Father, what’s going on?” Henrik asked again.
Mr. Melchior took a deep breath, took off his round glasses and carefully began polishing them. “No school today, Henrik, I’m afraid.” A quick smile flashed across his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. He was warming up for a little speech. “Well, here in Denmark, it used to be that no one has ever cared that we are Jews, any more than we care if you are left handed or blue eyed. The German Nazi soldiers and their leader, Mr. Hitler, on the other hand, have an entirely different opinion, and—"
A soft, quick rap on the front door interrupted Mr. Melchior. Everyone jumped, even Henrik’s mom in the kitchen.
“Who could that be?” Mr. Melchior whispered to his wife. “Ruth, would you—no, I’ll get it.” Henrik’s dad pushed out his chair from the kitchen table while everyone looked at one another as if they were wondering what to do. Maybe hide?
In his red robe and slippers Mr. Melchior looked more like he should have been letting the cat out on a Sunday morning. But before anyone could wonder who was out there, Mr. Andersen’s muffled voice came through the front door.
“It’s Arne Andersen, Mr. Melchior,” said Peter’s dad, almost as if he were whispering.
Mr. Melchior’s stiff back relaxed, and he quickly ran down the stairs to unbolt and open the door. When he came up, Peter’s dad stood for a moment at the entrance to the kitchen—only a moment—taking everyone in at a glance. He said good morning to Peter with his eyes.
“Come in, Arne. You’re a little early, but the coffee is already hot.” Mr. Melchior was getting back some of his humor. “I was just explaining to the boys here what has happened. Have you heard any details?”
Peter’s dad nodded quickly. “I’ve made a couple of calls, and we’ve confirmed that the Germans are planning their roundup of all Danish Jews for tonight and tomorrow morning. It will happen all over the country at the same time, but of course most of the Jews are in Copenhagen, not here in Helsingor. But the Nazis stole a list with the name of nearly every Jewish family in the country, so they know who you are and where you live.”
Mrs. Lumby, the storekeeper’s wife, buried her face in her hands and started to cry again, softly.
Peter’s father continued. “Now people are deciding whether they will hide and wait, or flee immediately.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the room again. No one else said a word.
“My brother Morten, as you know, is a fisherman, and we can use his boat to get you all over to Sweden immediately if that is what you want. I recommend it. There is no need for waiting. It is clear what is happening.”
Mrs. Lumby hadn’t said anything since Henrik and Peter had come into the room, but now she stood up, wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief, and looked at Peter’s father. “What about our homes, and our businesses?” she said.
That kind of talk went on for thirty minutes or so, while Henrik and Peter tried to follow it as best they could. It turned out that the Germans planned to round up all Danish Jews on the second evening of Rosh Hashanah: that night, Friday, September 30. The Germans must have figured out that all the Jews would be at home, having another nice dinner. And they probably all would have if a German official who had heard of Hitler’s plan hadn’t leaked the word the day before to the Danish Jewish leaders. That gave all six or seven thousand Danish Jews less than two days to pack a bag, hide, or get away. Forty eight hours.
“I had no idea my dad knew all about that stuff,” Peter said to Henrik as they returned to Henrik’s room. Peter had to get his things before he left with his father.
Henrik pulled his brown canvas school sack from under his bed and dumped his school books with a crash. “It’s not fair!” he yelled, picking up one of his school books and throwing it in the corner, hard. Peter winced. “Who says we have to just pick up and leave? What happened to the happy and sweet year?”
Peter remembered the words of the Rosh Hashanah apple in honey blessing, too. It was just the night before, but now it seemed like years ago, and he felt like throwing some books around, too. Maybe at a Nazi soldier, if he could find one. But he only stood there with his fists clenched, staring at Henrik stuffing socks and underwear into his school knapsack.
“Peter,” Mr. Andersen called down the hall. “We have to go now.”
Peter wheeled around, startled. “What about the Melchiors?” he asked. “The Germans are coming tonight.”
“They’re all staying at our house today and tonight, until your uncle returns from his fishing trip. He should be back tonight or tomorrow morning first thing, and we’ll have a way over to Sweden for these people.”
Peter looked over at Henrik, who was just standing there by his open sock drawer. It was decided, then.
“They’ll be over later, when they’re ready,” said Mr. Andersen. “So are the rest of the people downstairs. But right now you and I have to leave.”
The Minyan
11
Mrs. Andersen had never cooked for so many people before in her life, unless you counted the big family reunion picnic two years earlier at Silkeborg Lake. Now they had a different kind of family reunion; it seemed as if every Jew in Helsingor was in the Andersen living room. Elise counted twenty three.
Besides Elise, Peter, and their dad, there were the three Melchiors, the two Lumbys, Mrs. Lumby’s sister and their seven year old niece who lived with them, Ole the mailman (he was a single man), Klaus Albeck, his wife and three teenage daughters (Henrik’s cousins). Everyone who had been in the Melchior kitchen that morning, and then some. The Rasmussens from down the street came, too, and they brought along an older woman named Mrs. Clemmensen. People had been coming alone or by twos all day, mostly through the alley and by the side entrance to the building. Mr. Albeck also had an elderly mother and her sister, two aunts and an uncle. Actually, that made twenty five, if you counted Mrs. Andersen, who was slaving out in the kitchen.
Most everyone had brought a bag or two of food, so that helped. And the ladies were always asking what they could do.
“You can help by relaxing and making yourself as comfortable as you possibly can,” Mrs. Andersen would tell them all. She smiled like a hostess at a big party. Actually, she probably didn’t mind all the people, but it was by far the strangest, largest gathering Peter and Elise had ever seen in their apartment.
For dinner everyone took plates (somebody had thought ahead and brought a few extras), and found a place to sit wherever they could. The older people sat around the dinner table. Everyone chattered about everything, except what was going to happen the next day. They didn’t really know what to do with themselves, but they had to keep their voices down, so the neighbors wouldn’t wonder what was going on. Elise and Peter scurried around, trying to fetch all the things their mom needed.
Elise was trotting through the living room with an armload of towels when someone knocked at the door, down at the bottom of the stairs. She gasped, jumped, and dumped all the towels all over the floor. Everyone else froze in midsentence. Peter was getting to hate all the mysterious knocks. But at Mr. Andersen’s signal, everyone tiptoed quietly out of the room, bringing their plates with them into the bedrooms. Elise scrambled to pick up her towels.
Then Peter’s dad opened the door cautiously, while everyone else tried to hear what was going on.
“Excuse me, Mr. Andersen?” came the soft, scared voice of a man. In the kitchen, Peter looked at his sister, who shrugged. She didn’t recognize the voice, either. “
I understand you are arranging trips to Sweden for people like us.”
“Oh?” said Mr. Andersen. He could be a great actor when he wanted to be. “Why would we be doing something like that? I’m a banker, not a travel planner.”
“Please,” came the voice, “I believe it was your father... your father Kasper said we could stay here for the evening while we waited for the boat.”
“Well, Dad is always the generous one, isn’t he, now?” Mr. Andersen’s voice changed. “Come in, come in. I hope he’s not told the whole neighborhood already. Yes, we’re having quite a party here. In fact, it’s a jolly sleep over.” The door closed, and the new family stepped in. Mr. Andersen directed them upstairs to the living room.
At that, everyone in the back rooms came streaming out, and there were hugs and introductions all around. Some of the people knew the new family. Mr. Andersen put out his hands, making a sign for everyone to be more quiet.
“We’re the Christensens,” the new man announced after they had taken off their coats. His pudgy pink hands and matching waist made Peter guess he was a baker. Elise smiled at his two small girls, who hid behind their mother’s skirt. “We left a suitcase outside in the alley, just in case.”
“Well, fetch it, man!” said Mr. Andersen, angry for the first time all day. “Or would you like to announce to every German outside that we’re now running a hotel for weary Jews?” The man ran out and snatched his case, embarrassed.
Now with the baker and his wife, along with their two little girls, there were twenty nine.
Eating was the easy part. Everyone shared a bit with the new family, and it seemed there was plenty to spare. Plenty of potatoes, anyway. The harder part was finding a place for twenty five extra people to sleep in a three bedroom apartment. Normally, the Andersens had more room than most people they knew, but it was nowhere near enough for this crowd. Especially with only one bathroom.
“So the living room is the men’s dormitory,” announced Mr. Andersen, taking charge again. Peter liked the way he was making things happen; it was a side of his dad he had never really seen before. He couldn’t remember ever seeing his dad stand so tall and straight, marching all over, making sure everyone kept quiet, keeping things in order. Not bad, thought Peter. But then, things would get worse before they got better.
Saturday morning, in fact, was horrible.
“So how do we know your brother is coming?” whined baker Christensen for the third time. Mr. Andersen patiently didn’t answer. Everyone was awake, dressed, and cleaned for their last day in Denmark. Not all of them had slept, though, and some people’s nerves were showing their edges more than others. After the breakfast dishes were done, Elise kept the Christensen girls occupied to take their minds off what was going on. She had found some cards and Elise taught them a simple matching game on the floor.
“The red three,” Elise asked them, a little smile playing on her face. “Do you remember where the red three is?”
One of the little girls, Kirsten, giggled and turned over one of the twenty cards, arranged in a square. It was a black nine. Her sister laughed and pointed to where the red three was hiding. The Lumbys’ niece sat nearby on the floor, watching shyly.
On the other side of the room, the Albeck girls were staring out the window. Even though they were Henrik’s cousins, they didn’t talk to Henrik or to anyone else. They just stared out the window, frowning. Peter didn’t know them very well, and they were a couple of years older. He went back to his room to see what Henrik was doing.
Henrik was staring out the window, too. He looked over as Peter came in, but didn’t say anything.
“So do you still have to go over to your grandfather’s place?” asked Henrik. Mr. and Mrs. Andersen had talked about sending Peter and Elise away for the weekend, until everyone was cleared out of the apartment.
“No, I don’t think so,” replied Peter. “They were going to, but we promised to help extra. Elise is taking care of those little girls. I’m running around for my mom, fetching things. And after all, you’re my best friend.”
Henrik didn’t say anything but went back to staring out the window. For once, he wasn’t smiling, or joking, or even talking much. Peter chattered on, hoping to help Henrik feel a little better. “Good thing it’s only a day,” he said. “Your cousins look like they’re climbing the walls. Maybe we should invite Keld and Jesper over to keep them company.”
Henrik just smiled.
Peter quietly left his friend sitting by the window and went back to the living room. There Mrs. Christensen, the baker’s wife, was also sitting by a window, nervously peeking out every few minutes. She whispered to the others whenever a German patrol or a soldier marched by on the street. There were a lot out that day.
“Dear, we’ve been watching them for three years now,” her husband finally told her. “They’re nothing new.”
“We have to be extra careful,” she spit back, and her gray eyes flashed. “Every Jew in the country is hiding or running now. We have only a few hours more.”
Which reminded Peter—Uncle Morten was due back any time.
“I’ll go out and check if he’s come in yet,” he told Elise, who was still on the floor with the kids, by the door. Really, he just wanted a chance to get out of the house. Without another word, he slipped down the stairs and out the door, and ran down the street toward the harbor. He knew better than to ask Henrik if he wanted to come along, though. This was not a good morning for a Jew to be out for a walk.
The Anna Marie wasn’t in yet, so Peter slipped into the boathouse to wait.
“Here, Number Two,” he called out softly to his pigeon. As usual, Number One was strutting around in front of her, bobbing his head and cooing. Number Three was sticking closer to his parents. Peter waved his hand at them, and Number One fluttered a few feet to another perch. Then Peter checked their water dish, threw a few dried peas in their food tray, and sat down next to the big wire cage to wait.
“Hey, want to go bike riding?” came a voice from behind him. Henrik popped his smiling face into the shed and slipped in through the door.
“What in the world are you doing here?” Peter barked at him. “Your parents didn’t let you out, did they?”
“Of course not,” he shot back, “but I just had to say goodbye to good old Number One, and I was tired of feeling depressed and just staring out the window. It was my last chance. I slipped out after you left, just for a minute. I’ll go right back. No one saw me.”
“You’re nuts, Henrik. Totally nuts.”
The boys sat by the chicken wire cage for half an hour, neither saying anything. They just watched the birds dance. Once in a while a pigeon flew up to its wooden perch on the wall, higher up in the top corner of the coop. Each time, their fluttering stirred up a pile of feathers. Henrik took a big gray feather and tucked it into his pocket for a souvenir.
“Hey, when I come back, Number One will probably be a great grandfather, right?”
The chatter and rumble of a fishing boat broke their awkward talk, and they both ran to the dirty little window, the one that faced out to the harbor and the docks below.
“That’s him,” said Peter, not saying anything Henrik didn’t already know. They ducked as Uncle Morten got nearer to the dock, only about twenty feet away.
“You go out,” said Henrik, suddenly looking afraid. Obviously, he wasn’t as brave as he talked. Peter went out and helped his uncle tie up and unload a couple of boxes. Uncle Morten grunted with fatigue as he lifted a box onto the deck and closed his eyes while running his hand across his beard.
Finally, Peter couldn’t stand it anymore. “All the Jews are being rounded up,” he whispered. There was no one else nearby, only the usual activity of boats loading and unloading, men working in the distance. No one could hear a word they were saying. “Our house is full of them, all waiting for you to take them over to Sweden. Dad said you had already talked about what to do if something like this would happen.”
“And
so it finally did,” said Uncle Morten, shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his mind. His eyes seemed to darken, and he looked around the docks. “We knew it would happen; we just didn’t know when.” He jerked on a mooring line. “I should have been here. Come on, Peter.” Then he looked at the boathouse. “You too, Henrik.”
Back at the apartment, Henrik got a thorough scolding from his parents for slipping out, but Uncle Morten’s arrival cut things short. There wasn’t much time to plan the escape before that night; Uncle Morten, Mr. Andersen, and a few of the other men sat around the kitchen table, talking in low tones.
“That’s the best we can figure it,” said Peter’s father as he pushed back his chair. It was now the middle of the afternoon and lunch dishes were still stacked all over the table.
“I think so, too, big brother,” said Uncle Morten. He was only a year or two younger than Peter’s father, but the wind and sun had made a difference on the fisherman’s face and hands. And Peter’s dad, the banker, didn’t get as much exercise. Both were pretty rugged looking, though, and there was no doubt they were brothers. Everyone in the room looked up to the two of them, the captain and the banker.
Discussion over, Uncle Morten tapped his drinking glass with a spoon, signaling a speech. Everyone hushed, even the little kids.
“Before we start our trip tonight,” he said, “I’d like to offer a word of prayer.” Everyone just stared at him, not sure what to say. It was quiet. Very quiet. Uncle Morten looked around for a brief second, judging their expressions.
“I know we don’t share exactly the same beliefs,” he said finally. “But, um, we started out in the same place. My Bible and your Torah, the books of Moses, both talk about the same Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. So I’d like to pray for you anyway.”
Both Mr. Melchior and Peter’s dad looked at Uncle Morten, then at each other. Henrik’s father broke the ice with his famous smile. It was easy to tell where Henrik got his from.
