by Robert Elmer
With a hearty swing and a satisfying grinding sound of metal-upon-metal, the bar easily took out the door's lock.Wolfschmidt stepped up beside his driver before the other man could complete the break-in, kicking the door open with his own boot. Unfortunately that would leave a scuff, but that could be shined out in the morning, when this operation was all over and he'd collected enough commendations for the day. The door exploded open, slamming something inside with a satisfying crash.
"I want everyone in this building assembled in the synagogue next door," he shouted, making certain everyone around him heard him well. "Everyone, do you hear me? Immediately! You have ten minutes."
And they seemed to require all of those ten minutes, despite the fact that none of the residents of this old-age home could have put up any resistance. Nine minutes later, Wolfschmidt paced in front of the ornate podium inside the synagogue, waiting for the last of his elderly captives. None looked younger than about sixty, and the latest arrival—bound with leather straps and dragged to the front of the auditorium— might have been in her eighties or perhaps nineties. Many of these Danes seemed to live to a ripe old age. But really they were Jews, all of them, and he reminded himself of the fact.No, to him it certainly didn't matter how old they were, how weak, or how infirm. To Wolfschmidt, a Jew was a Jew, no matter which country they found themselves in.
"Why are you doing this?" The wizened old woman looked up at him with a pitiful expression, tears in her rheumy eyes.Her gnarled hands trembled as she lay on the hard tile floor, and her silver hair unfolded in a fan around her shoulders."We've done nothing to deserve such treatment."
"What is your name?" he demanded, hands on his hips.And as soon as he had asked the question, though, he regretted it—as if hearing her name spoken aloud might lend her more personality than he cared to acknowledge. He should not have asked, and it was not in their instructions or their orders to do so. But there; he'd asked her. And now she would answer, or suffer for her insubordination.
"Paikin," she whispered back, still daring to look him straight in the eye. Such an attitude would easily be modi- fied. "My name is Fru Paikin."
"Well then, Fru Paikin, you're an enemy of the Reich," he reminded her with a smirk. "Or didn't you know?"
Given her age, perhaps she was only a symbolic enemy.He would grant her that. But an enemy nonetheless. And certainly she could not refute the facts, as Wolfschmidt understood them. This time she did not try, only pressed her thin lips together and remained mute. Just as well.
On the other side of the room, an eager young scharführer had a Jewish man backed up to the wall, pushing him for information about this or that saboteur. Thus the sergeant had been instructed in their orders, naturally. But what those orders did not detail was that he would certainly find out nothing of value here in this place. Wolfschmidt knew this without a doubt, but still he conceded it might be prudent to make the effort—or rather, to allow the scharführer to make the effort. Let him try. But before long the old man crumpled in obvious fear beneath the scharführer's blows to the face and head, while Wolfschmidt looked on with approval. Yes, he decided, this might be a useful exercise for the men.
Up in the front of the auditorium, on the platform, several of Wolfschmidt's more enterprising young soldiers had improvised a new location for an impromptu indoor urinal.They looked back with a laugh while he signaled for them to continue.
Too bad there aren't more valuables here, he thought. We'll just have to do the best we can with what we find. If nothing else, these boys deserve a souvenir.
Meanwhile, the rest of the old people seemed to have taken offense at the interrogations, and after several minutes several had simply dissolved in tears or started mumbling in that peculiar language of theirs. At this, Wolfschmidt decided their efforts had gone far enough.
"Enough, already!" He waved his hand for attention. "We have several more addresses to visit before we're done for the evening. Let's get these hauled out to the truck."
Over on the side, the scharführer had finished his interrogation and stood with a boot planted firmly on his subject, the way he had been trained to do. Wolfschmidt motioned him over, so a moment later the scharführer joined him with a satisfied grin.
"I suppose they'll have enough time for prayers where they're going, won't they, Herr Sturmbannführer?"
"Absolutely." Wolfschmidt nodded and checked the time. Even with the extra effort they'd finished well ahead of schedule here. Time to deliver these Jews to the waiting ship in København's harbor, and move on. They had many more Jews to transport before they could reach the Führer's goal of making this protectorate, like all the rest of Europe, judenrein.
Free of Jews.
14
IBSEN'S BOOKSTORE, KØBENHAVN
SATURDAY EVENING, 2 OKTOBER 1943
Our task today is recklessness. For what we Christians lack is not
psychology or literature . . . we lack a holy rage—the ability to
rage when justice lies prostrate on the streets, and . . . a holy anger
about the things that are wrong in the world.
—PASTOR KAJ MUNK
Lock the door behind you!" Henning made his meaning clear. And Steffen, barely inside the door of the shop, reacted just as quickly. Closing time, already? He turned the deadbolt and flipped the sign in the window from aaben to lukket.
Meanwhile Henning pulled down a large blackout shade on the window, not so much to follow regulations—though by five o'clock it was certainly dark—but almost certainly to ensure no one out on Nørrebrogade would see what he was about to do.
"I don't think they're going to last much longer," Steffen told him. "They know what's happened, and they're ready to bolt."
"They're staying where we hid them?"
"For now. But like I said, they're—"
"They just have to hold on a little while longer." Henning held up his hand as he pulled a few books out of a shelf.Behind them he'd hidden a radio receiver. Steffen whistled in admiration.
"Short wave? I've never seen this before."
Henning shrugged as if it was nothing.
"You never asked. Now keep it down; I want to hear what they have to say. It's amusing, sometimes."
This time Henning fiddled with the dial a bit, tuning out the static and keeping it tuned to a local bandwidth. Tonight they would listen to the German-approved propaganda, rather than an illegal foreign broadcast like the BBC. Finally Henning cocked his head to the side, listening.
"I usually can't stand to listen to these stikker," he said."Traitors. They'll do anything the Nazis ask."
Steffen kept still and listened just as intently as his brother.Finally the announcer's voice came in more clearly.
"As a result of measures taken by the German authorities," the announcer told them in a monotone, "the Jews have been removed from public life and prevented from continuing to poison the atmosphere, for it is they who have to a considerable degree been responsible for the deterioration of the situation in Danmark through anti-German incitement and more and material support for acts of terror and sabotage."
"Poison, eh?" At that Henning actually laughed. "If only they knew who was really behind the sabotage."
Ja, thought Steffen, studying his saboteur brother's face. If they only knew.
Still the announcer droned on. Steffen couldn't be sure if it was actually a German sympathizer, but he seemed to be doing a good job of putting listeners to sleep.
"In the next few days, in response to the inquiries of large sections of the Danish population, release of interned Danish soldiers will begin and will continue at a rate corresponding to the technical possibilities."
"In other words," Henning interpreted for them as he snapped off his radio, "they're going to release our boys to keep people off their backs while they deport Jewish families to death camps. Danish families."
They looked at each other, fire matching fire, and for the first time in a long while Steffen didn't feel as i
f they were about to lapse into an argument.
"It's not going to work," said Steffen, before pausing. "Is it?"
"Of course it's not going to work." Henning slammed his secret cabinet shut, then put his shoulder to the bookshelf and rolled it shut. "Do you know how many Jews they've found so far, out of the seven or eight thousand in the entire country?"
He seemed a little too well-informed about the matter, but Steffen wasn't going to ask too many questions.
"I have no idea. But last night I saw a truckload of soldiers enter the apartment block right across from the church, and they left without having found a single one."
"Exactly! I heard some of the old folks didn't find a hiding place soon enough. A few others didn't get the word. But it's a big failure, Steffen. A wonderful flop!"
Perhaps so far. But Steffen wasn't forgetting the people hiding in the basement of his church. And he assumed thousands more still found themselves in the same situation.
"So what do we do now?" asked Steffen, choosing his words carefully—and well aware that he had just stepped over a line he'd never crossed before.
"That depends." Henning looked him over seriously.
"On?"
"On whether you're involved." He rubbed his chin, as if sizing up his brother. "Are you?"
Steffen didn't answer right away as he walked through the familiar, comfortable shelves of books. Always he'd felt a sanctuary here, in this world of ideas and theories that only demanded his attention and nothing more. He could offer it or not.
This time, however, he knew the people in his church basement needed more than a sermon. He fingered the spine of a volume of Ibsen's poems to keep his hand from trembling, then finally nodded.
"I suppose I'm already involved," he found himself saying."We have to get these people to safety, don't we?"
Henning didn't answer, but Steffen jumped as someone pounded on the door.
"We're closed! Lukket!" Henning shouted over his shoulder without looking to see who it was. Still the pounding continued. "I said—"
"Please!" A familiar voice brought Steffen to attention."It's Hanne Abrahamsen."
Henning raised his eyebrows at his brother and flashed a smile. Steffen didn't react but simply unbolted the door and let Hanne inside. She quickly looked from one brother to the next, then around at the empty shop.
"Nobody here but us," Henning reassured her as she stepped inside. Her eyes looked red and puffy and her hair windblown, as if she had not slept well or had been crying.
"You're all right, then?" Steffen asked as he locked the door once more. "You heard what happened last night."
"I heard." She hugged her shoulders and kept her long coat buttoned all the way up. Perhaps it was colder out there than Steffen remembered. "And I'm very sorry to have come here, but—"
"You really shouldn't have," Steffen told her, feeling like a big brother all over again. "It's not safe for you to be out on the street. But how did you know to come here?"
Henning filled in the blank. "You followed my brother here to the store, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, but . . ." She opened her mouth to explain, then frowned. "Look, I know it's not particularly safe out on the street, but my identity card doesn't have any sort of Jewish designation on it."
"Not yet," countered Henning. "On the other hand, they must know who you are. And pretty soon you know they're going to have a watchlist."
"So can you help me with . . ." She paused to take a breath, "with another identity card?"
Henning looked as if he was thinking it over, but nodded his head slowly.
"That's not easy to do," he finally told her with a sigh. "But I'll ask around. I assume you'd want a nice Danish name like Olsen or Nielsen or Hansen, am I right? Meanwhile, you have to avoid getting stopped on the street."
She nodded her agreement, though Steffen could tell she hadn't just come to inquire about getting a fake identity card.
"Something else?" asked Henning.
"Ja." Now it was Hanne's turn to sigh. "Look, we've taken in a good number of refugees at the hospital. More than my directors are comfortable with, actually. And already many of them are being moved up the coast to find a boat across from Gilleleje. But the people in your church. My mother.They're still safe, are they not? And how soon can we get them to safety?"
"They're safe." Henning crossed his arms in a way that signaled confidence. Or in Henning's case, perhaps a little arrogance as well. "And we're getting them out tonight."
Relief flooded Hanne's features as her shoulders slumped and she appeared to breathe easier.
"Good. But you're taking them out from our harbor here? Really? Not from up the coast, where it's closer to Sweden?"
Henning's firm expression never changed.
"You wanted us to get them out? So that's what we're going to do. They'll be transported at midnight in a rowboat, meeting the fishing boat just outside the inner harbor. So they'll be past the German patrols in just a few hours, and eating breakfast in Sweden by daybreak. Does that meet your approval?"
Hanne's face clouded as she backed away a half step. This was starting to sound like serious business, and Steffen didn't especially care for the tone of these negotiations. He started to interject a word of compromise, but with a raised hand Hanne wouldn't allow it.
"I didn't come here to offer my approval," she said, "and I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job. I was just wondering—"
"No offense taken." Now Henning managed a smile, while Steffen could only look on helplessly. "You'll be interested to know, however, that your pastor friend here is going to be rowing your refugee friends himself."
"He is?" Hanne's face showed at least as much surprise as Steffen felt. What in the world?
"I am?" Steffen gulped, while Henning gave them both a mock expression of confidence. Surely he was kidding, now.When had he come up with such a plan, and not even told Steffen the details?
"Of course he is. You're looking at the man who took fourth place in the 1928 Olympic trials. Have you seen the medals in his office? He missed making the Danish team by just a half second. I'll bet you didn't know that."
"No, I didn't." She furrowed her brow at Steffen with a look that brought color to his cheeks. She needn't have looked quite so surprised, even if Henning didn't remember his facts so well.
"So we need to see your first person at eleven forty-five, not a second before or later. Steffen will be waiting in his boat under the east side of the Nyhavn Bridge. You know the place?"
"Did you say Nyhavn?" Hanne's eyes widened in surprise."That's crazy."
"Yes, I know." Henning smiled at his audacious plan. "Right in front of the Germans' noses. But that's exactly the point.And that's why it's going to work."
"Right there in the busiest part of the harbor," said Hanne, still looking as if she didn't quite believe it.
"And nearly two sea-miles out to the Sound," he went on."But to Steffen, that's nothing."
Steffen wasn't sure whether to thank his brother for the vote of confidence, or refuse immediately, before it was too late. Nyhavn. New Harbor. Though it had changed some in recent years, this narrow canal was still one of the most, well, questionable collections of colorful waterfront pubs and worse.And getting through that venerable waterfront neighborhood after curfew would surely pose a challenge in itself. But Hanne nodded gravely and Henning went on.
"So I want the second person two minutes after the first one, and the last two at two-minute intervals. Two, four, six, eight. No one will say a word or make a noise, they'll just crawl under the tarp in the back of the boat, and stay there until the boat is clear of the inner harbor and we're ready to make the transfer. Understand?"
"I'll tell them," she agreed. "And I'll let them know an Olympic rower will be taking them to freedom."
"Only out of the harbor, and then you transfer to another boat, one with a permit to be out there. It will be waiting."
By this time Steffen could only watch the
conversation work its way back and forth, like a table tennis match. Neither Henning nor Hanne asked for his opinion; perhaps they had forgotten he still stood there. And most notably, no one acknowledged the fact that he had a sermon to deliver tomorrow morning, and that staying out all night rowing Jewish refugees past German guards and out into the Øresund sounded like the wildest form of insanity. No one mentioned that part. Instead, Hanne discussed details with the detached manner of someone negotiating the sale of a fresh cod from the apron-clad fishwives on Gammel Strand in the old waterfront quarter.
"I see," Hanne replied, shifting to look at Steffen this time."And where again will you be waiting?"
"As I said." Henning didn't let his brother offer a word of his own, which in this case was all well enough. What would Steffen have said, anyway? "Under the bridge. And mind you're on time. If you're not all there by eleven-fifty, he's going to be leaving with whoever is on board. Any questions?"
Hanne looked from one brother to the other, and shook her head no. He wished she might have asked about how they planned to avoid German soldiers on the street, how they hoped to steer clear of German patrol boats on the water, and exactly where they intended to meet up with the fishing boat, somewhere beyond the inner harbor. She asked none of that.
"Actually," Steffen put in, "I took fifth place, not fourth. I was at least a half minute off the pace. And I haven't been able to get out and row for months."
Henning rolled his eyes and steered Hanne back toward the door.
"Don't mind him," he told her. "I think his bicycle accident might have affected his head. But believe me, he still knows how to row. You should see him, sometime."
Steffen took that as a compliment, and Hanne looked over her shoulder with a polite smile. But then he could think of nothing appropriate to say. He could not tell her this was the very first he'd heard of his brother's scheme. Nor could he explain how he'd gone from a respectable pastor to a lawbreaker who illicitly harbored refugees in his church basement, to an active participant in his brother's illegal activities. He dared not even think of the potential consequences, if they were caught. Even more than that, he dared not quote Paul's letter to the Romans anymore—despite the fact that the bishops themselves had quoted it in their protest letter. Because this was different. This was real, except for the fact that Hanne Abrahamsen had stepped into his life in an odd sort of way.
