by Robert Elmer
"Oh. Well, if that's the case."
"I promise no one's going to bite. But if they do, you be sure to tell me. And by the way . . ." He paused on the way up the stairs. "You look very nice."
She felt her cheeks flush a bit. It wasn't her newest dress but one of her favorites from before the war—navy blue with a white belt. And she had to admit, she didn't have much occasion to wear it, lately.
"Tak." Her words were drowned out as someone opened the door up ahead and a tuxedo-clad butler ushered them into a large formal room filled with older people. She left her box of chocolates inconspicuously on a side table, where the hostess might not see it.
The place might have passed for a ballroom in one of Danmark's finer manor houses, with ceilings easily three meters high, supported by gilded colonnades. The floor was a fine marbled Italian tile, and around the large room were placed tables laden with drinks and fancy appetizers Hanne couldn't even identify. And this wasn't even the dining room.She had not seen so much fine food since before the war.
"Don't ask where it all comes from," Steffen told her."These people have probably never seen a ration card."
"They leave that kind of thing to the servants, do they?" she whispered back.
A few of "these people" she recognized from the newspapers—business executives and government leaders, perhaps a member of the royal family? But as Hanne gaped at the sights, a sprightly gray-haired woman in a lovely black formal dress spotted them from across the room and made her way over to them.
"Pastor! I'm so happy you could make it. And this is—"
"My friend Hanne," said Steffen. "The one I mentioned over the phone?"
The woman's expression flickered for just a moment as she glanced behind her, then turned back with a full smile.
"Of course, dear, I'm so pleased to meet you. Please call me Eva." She gave Steffen a conspiratorial wink. "Pastor, you didn't tell me she was so lovely. I should have known."
Hanne smiled and shook the woman's hand. She could not help but instantly like Eva, especially the playful sparkle in her eyes as she took Hanne by the hand, leading her from one couple to the next, making introductions as if they had always been best friends. Here was Herr and Fru Christensen.Steffen whispered in her ear that he was high up in the Tuborg Beer fortune. There was C. Jens Hedtoft, who set aside his cigar to shake her hand. According to Steffen, an executive with A. P. Møller, so he made a lot of money in the shipping business. And so on. They even met Eva's daughter, who looked like a sweet young thing though perhaps not as glad to meet Hanne as the others had been. By that time Eva was tapping on a wine glass with a spoon to get everyone's attention.
"Ernst and I are so glad everyone could make it this afternoon," she told them, smiling all around. "But before we go in to dinner I wanted to introduce a special young lady. Her name is Hanne and she is currently working at Bispebjerg with many of the . . . shall we say, refugees. I think you all know to whom I'm referring."
As if on cue, a rumble from out on the street told them a convoy of some sort was passing by. And from where Hanne stood she could just make out the tops of several ugly gray trucks, each marked with the army cross of the German forces. She held her breath and looked away.
By this time the hall had grown deathly still, and every eye focused on Hanne. Even the men standing at the far end of the room around the fireplace with their sherry and cigars craned their necks to see. Their hostess ignored the rumbling outside, which eventually passed.
"Because I feel confident in your trust and patriotism, I just wanted you to know that this brave young woman, along with our very own Pastor Steffen Petersen from Sankt Stefan's Kirke—and ja, he is also a saint, if you ask me—they are making it possible for these poor people to travel to their temporary accommodations in Sweden. Please forgive my even mentioning such a delicate matter, but in these times such things must be said. So may I please be so bold as to suggest that perhaps some of you might be able to help underwrite the efforts? I can vouch for them, certainly. And we all know what's happening out there. So if you are able to speak with her or the pastor, I know they will deeply appreciate it."
So bold! Hanne certainly didn't expect the applause, nor what happened next. Herr Christensen was first in line with 5,000 kroner, which he peeled inconspicuously from his bulging leather wallet.
"If there's one way to stick it to those Nazis," he told her, lowering his voice and placing the bills in her hand, "this is the least I can do."
She looked down at the bills, not quite knowing what to do with so much money. But she managed to smile and thank him as she stuffed the contribution into her purse.
Moments later Hedtoft the shipping executive guided Hanne by the arm to the corner of the room, where he placed even more money into her hand. She was afraid to count or even look at it.
"Personally I think the Jews are a little odd," he told her, leaning a little close and spilling his sherry on his pants leg."But they're still Danes. And you know we're not going to let any Danes be shipped off to some concentration camp, like so many cattle. Not if we can help it. It's just not right."
No, it wasn't, and Hanne could only nod and thank him, as well. But that wasn't the end of it. One after another, sometimes just the men but often the wives as well—each came up to Hanne with cash and a similar story of outrage.
This can't be happening to our people.
We'll show those Nazis.
This has gone too far.
Soon Hanne's little purse couldn't hold any more and she looked across the room to where Steffen had been cornered by men with cigars and serious looks. At one point she caught Steffen's eye; he smiled and winked at her before they moved into the dining room for the main course, as one more guest pressed a wad of bills into his hand.
By six that evening Hanne and Steffen were both headed home on the S-train into the city. Huddled in the corner of the train, Hanne could hardly contain her excitement.
"Did you talk with the big round fellow?" she asked. "The one with the huge moustache?"
"You mean Parslov." Steffen shook his head. "No, actually, I think he wanted to speak with a lady."
"I don't know anything about that." She felt her cheeks color a bit, but by this time it didn't matter. "But first he gave me five thousand kroner, and then after dinner he added . . .I don't know how much."
She looked down at her bulging purse. "In fact, I have no idea how much we collected tonight. How much do you think? This was incredible!"
"I'm thinking perhaps a hundred thousand kroner," he told her in a low voice, breaking out in a smile. "Enough for at least a hundred tickets across the Sound, maybe more. I'm not sure. All I know is that we're not counting anything until we get back to the church."
Hanne sat quietly in the train next to Steffen, enjoying the warmth of his closeness and the almost giddy realization of what had just happened. Outrageous fundraising, indeed.And though the tingle she felt inside could have come from the glass of sherry after an amazing dinner, she wasn't so sure.She didn't mind slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.
18
BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL, KØBENHAVN
MONDAY MORNING, 4 OKTOBER 1943
We must forget the nightmares, but remember the lessons and how
they made us aware that we're part of a people that just wanted to
live our lives in peace.
–POUL OVERGAARD NIELSEN
Back for another visit, Pastor? You're early today."Steffen did his best to look surprised when he noticed Hanne hurrying down the hospital hallway, headed in his direction. He couldn't quite remember which of his people might be expecting a pastoral visit first thing Monday morning, but he was hoping there might be one or two. And while he was there, it certainly wouldn't hurt to stop by the emergency ward.
"Early?" He smiled and slowed, checking his watch again."If half-ten is early, you're early, yourself."
"Every Monday the same." She held her clipboard close."But actually
I do have a question for you. Perhaps you'll give me a short head start, and then follow me down the hall?"
The request set him back just a bit. Even so, Steffen did his best to appear nonchalant.
"Of course." He kept his voice loud enough so an orderly rolling past with a wheelchair could hear. "I'm just here visiting my people, as always. See you again sometime."
Hanne smiled back at him and continued on down the hall, while Steffen watched her out of the corner of his eye as she ducked into a stairwell.
"Pastor?" An older woman he did not recognize motioned to him from one of the adjacent patient areas. For a moment he considered pretending he had not heard her, but she'd already caught his eye and waved once more. He sighed and stepped inside her small room, stopping by her bed.
"Are you the one who's arranging for my funeral?" she asked as she reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Pardon?"
"My funeral. The casket. I want to know if it's all ready. I arranged to have it delivered here, but no one is helping me."
"Actually, nej, I'm not on staff here, as you presume."Steffen tried to pull gently away, but the woman only tightened her hold. She looked old, yes, well into her eighties.But her grip told him she might not be as near death as she seemed to think. "I'm the pastor at Sankt Stefan's. I just visit my people. I mean, not just, but that's why I come here. You don't live in my parish, do you?"
Well, she certainly could have, though Steffen had never seen the woman before.
"I've been to Sankt Stefan's a time or two," she replied."For my sister's wedding."
"Oh? Recently?" He imagined she sounded slightly out of touch with reality, but couldn't help asking.
"Well, it would have been in . . . oh-three, if I remember correctly. You wouldn't have been the pastor then, I suppose?"
"No, ah, that was a few years before my time, I'm afraid."
Steffen tried to back away as he spoke. He just needed to break free, now, and he hoped she wouldn't try to grab him by the wide, old-style clerical collar that identified him and his office. But that might be a problem, since the collar flared out all around his neck in the traditional style worn by Danish pastors for hundreds of years.
"Well, I want you to check on my funeral," she told him."I've told my son how it should be, but he keeps saying I'm not going to die, yet."
"And you don't think he's right?" Finally Steffen ducked from her vise-like grip. If this woman was dying, so was he."You look quite healthy to me."
"Ak, ja." Now she waved him off in obvious disgust. "You're just like my son. Nobody believes me."
"Well, you just let me know if there's any way we can pray for you." Steffen stepped toward the door with a smile. "And you're always welcome at Sankt Stefan's Kirke."
Without waiting for an answer he slipped out the door and made for the exit where he'd last seen Hanne. He avoided looking into any other patient rooms, then slipped through the exit door and into the stairwell before pausing. Up or down?
"What took you so long?" Hanne asked from the landing below. He stepped down to meet her.
"Sorry. I was roped into a conversation with an older lady who was convinced she was terminal. She didn't seem that way to me."
Hanne smiled and casually adjusted her white nurses cap.
"Oh, Fru Ibsen! Isn't she a sweetheart? She comes in every few months with what she believes is a life-threatening illness.We really ought to admit her to the psych ward, but she's usually quite entertaining. It seems easier just to let her rest in a room for a day or two, and then we call her son to take her home again."
"Ah. Well, this time she seemed to have her funeral all planned out."
"Again? Oh, dear. She did that two months ago. And that means she's probably having another casket delivered here to the hospital. We'll take care of it." A door slammed a couple of floors above, and she waited until it was obvious no one was coming. "But look, that's not what I need to ask you."
"No?" Steffen wasn't sure what she was talking about now.
"I mentioned we're full of Jewish refugees here at Bispebjerg.But it's getting critical. They're in the tunnels, they've been admitted as patients, we've appropriated entire wards for them. We couldn't take one more if we wanted to. And I would like to. There's just no place to put them."
Steffen raised his eyebrows in interest.
"You have all the money we collected yesterday."
"Yes, yes. It's safe. And that's not the problem."
"So the problem is?"
"The problem is we have Germans in here fairly often. Even Gestapo, sometimes. I believe you've seen that Wolfschmidt fellow. He's keeping an eye on us."
"So why don't you get the people out of here, out to the coast? We need to move them out now, don't we?"
Steffen wasn't sure if she noticed how he said "we," either.But there. He'd said it.
"That's just it. They can't just walk out there with their suitcases."
Steffen let her continue.
"They're stopping cars now, searching everything. It's much more aggressive. They're stopping people getting onto the trains—especially trains going north, up the coast. We don't know how to get these poor people out of here without endangering their lives."
By this time Hanne was pacing from one end of the landing to the other, her arms crossed.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she continued, and looked out a small window to the outside. "It's just that we need to do something soon. Maybe your brother would have some ideas."
"My brother?" Steffen thought about it for a moment, wondering if this was why she had confided in him. Because of Henning? His younger brother certainly didn't have all the answers, and Hanne couldn't really know how headstrong Henning might be. But he couldn't just come out and say so.Actually, he had a better idea. A little crazy, perhaps, but one never knew about this sort of thing.
"How many people do we need to move?" he finally asked."And to where, exactly?"
She looked at him curiously.
"Right now we have sixty-eight. No, sixty-nine. Mothers, fathers, kids, babies, old people. As far as where they're going, well, there's only a couple of escape routes out of København, because of all the Germans here. You took one already. And frankly, I don't know why you weren't spotted. I told my mother she should have taken a different route."
"You did what? I thought you wanted her to get to safety."
Now Hanne turned away and didn't look Steffen in the eye as her voice lowered.
"I thought it was too risky, what you were doing. But she insisted. She said she trusted you."
"And you don't?"
"I didn't say that." Hanne turned back to face him. "But it's my mother we're talking about, you know."
Steffen thought he could feel some of the pain and concern in her eyes, but he didn't know how to tell her that without sounding too familiar. He imagined though, that if they traded places, he might be saying the same thing.
"What about you?" she asked. "Are your parents . . . ?"
"My mother died when I was younger. Henning was eighteen.I kept an eye on him."
"I'm sorry." She didn't ask about their father, which was just as well. Instead she looked at him with the biggest brown eyes he had ever seen, and for a moment he knew why she was a nurse. Neither said a word until he realized that he was staring and shook his head.
"Well. About getting these people out of here. What are you being told?"
"Right." Hanne snapped back to business, as well. "We're hearing that most of the fishing boats are meeting people up the coast from as close as Tårbæk, maybe, but then up toward Rungsted and Humlebæk, all the way up to Gilleleje."
"Then that's where we need to take them, correct?"
"Ja. But as I said—"
"I know." He held up his hand. This could work. "Listen, could you meet me back here in two hours? I think I know how we can get a few people out. Let's start with . . . three?"
"Three? Are you sure?"
&nbs
p; "We have the money to pay their way now, do we not?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Just let me try something. Where did you say Fru Ibsen's coffin was delivered?"
"Probably at the service entry, but what does that—"
"Good. That's where I want to meet you at—" he looked at his watch—"nine-thirty."
He didn't wait for her answer, just hurried outside. Once out in the cold mid-morning sun, however, he had to stop and ask himself.
What am I thinking?
19
BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL, KØBENHAVN
MONDAY MORNING, 4 OKTOBER 1943
Where words fail, music speaks.
—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Half an hour later Steffen burst into the Ibsen Boghandel, forgetting to check if Hans Christian Andersen was in the front widow. Never mind. He had no time for that kind of nonsense. He waited until a spindly older woman finished buying a used romance, then stepped up to the counter.
"I need the keys to your vehicle, Henning," he whispered.
His brother turned to face him, and Steffen stopped short.Henning's face looked badly bruised, with dark welts on his face and around his right eye. A gash on his chin had been taped together, and his right hand wrapped in bandages.
"What happened to you? You look . . ."
"Don't say it. I'll be fine."
"You look like you were run over by a truck."
"That's not far from the truth. It's a long story. But what are you doing here?"
Steffen wasn't sure if he should press his brother harder to find out what had happened to him. Henning didn't look eager to share details. But now there wasn't time.
"Actually, we're going to have a funeral, and we're going to get some of those people out of Bispebjerg. I just need the vehicle, and I was going to ask you to help me, but . . . where are the keys?"
