“IN THE SPRING of 1940,” Britta says at the next session, “my sister was seventeen and in her last year of high school. Grethe had a large circle of friends; she was immensely popular, and she was well-respected. She was elected to the student council, and she was also the school’s delegate to the Danish Union of Student Councils. She had a handsome boyfriend and a million girlfriends. I was always in awe of my sister.
“Before the Nazi occupation, teenage life was easy and relatively unrestricted. The streets were safe, crime was negligible and, like young people everywhere, Danish kids looked forward to the weekends. There were movies, sports, clubs and of course the dances. Big band music coming out of America was popular at the time. Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller. Swing music. ‘Jumpin’ at the Woodside,’ ‘In the Mood.’” Memories play out in Britta’s mind like a scrapbook, and she has a nostalgic smile. “‘Doin’ the Jive,’ that was my favorite,” she says.
“My sister loved to dance; you should have seen her. High-waisted skirt, a little above the knee, that would swing out and twirl when she danced, mirroring the movement of her long blond hair. There was a popular hall in Copenhagen, the Palace, where the older kids could go. I loved to dance too, but I was only fourteen, and I wasn’t allowed to go to the Palace. And I didn’t have a boyfriend.
“Then came April 9, the invasion, the Cooperation Agreement, and everything changed. German soldiers, rifles slung on their shoulders, walked casually on the sidewalks and congregated on the corners. War planes flew overhead on their way to bases in the north. Nazi motorcycles, trucks, jeeps, and strange vehicles they called half-tracks, rolled down our cobblestone streets. The European war was heating up. Within the next several weeks, Germany would invade and conquer Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg and France. Their conquests seemed boundless and unstoppable. Europe was Germany’s for the taking, and Denmark was a staging area for their northern ambitions.
“Even though Denmark’s government was operating as before, everywhere we looked there were green and brown uniforms, and everyone knew the Nazis were here to stay. And there was nothing we could do about it. Though they did not actively interfere with our daily activities, it was devastating and demoralizing to us.
“My father, like most Danes, didn’t trust Germany, and by logical extension, didn’t trust the soldiers in our streets. We had all heard stories about the German military and their brutality in Nazi-occupied countries. We were told to stay away from the soldiers. Don’t talk to them, don’t confront them. Our parents set rigid rules, strict curfews. Come straight home from school and stay home. In truth, my father didn’t want us going out at all. I could live with it, but not Grethe. She was nearly eighteen, and she was in a relationship. Lukas was twenty-one. He was tall and very thin, but with big shoulders. He had floppy blond hair and big ears, which I teased him about. He was an athlete, a world-class runner, and whenever he competed, Grethe and I would be there on the sidelines screaming for him. He had qualified for the 800 meters and the 4 x 400 relay in the Olympic Trials and was due to compete in the 1940 Tokyo Olympics. Unfortunately, the Olympics were canceled in 1939 and did not resume again until 1948. But Lukas had won several medals in university events and was one of the best athletes in Denmark. And he was plain crazy about Grethe. Who wouldn’t be?
“Lukas was in his second year at the University of Copenhagen, studying chemistry. Grethe was finishing high school and was going to enter the university in the fall. You can imagine how well a curfew went over with her. No dance halls. No Lukas. She and my father locked horns; there was shouting, screaming, slamming doors and threats to leave. Mama would be crying and pleading. Father was trying to reason with her, but Grethe wanted no part of the new rules.
“My father wasn’t entirely wrong. German soldiers were everywhere. They dined in the restaurants, sat in the cafés and strolled about in the evening. They were Nazis and my father saw them for what they represented. But Grethe and her friends saw them differently. They didn’t feel threatened. The soldiers weren’t hassling anyone or arresting anyone. They were young, friendly and sociable, and they walked the streets with swagger and a smile. They knew that Denmark was a cushy assignment, they had been told to be nice and they didn’t want to screw it up. They called their service in Denmark Sahnefront, which is German for Cream Front; easy, smooth and lots of dairy products. Their brother soldiers were fighting in Poland, France, Belgium or on the eastern front. So the soldiers in Copenhagen weren’t interested in causing any trouble or creating an incident.
“Teachers warned us as well. Don’t confront the soldiers. Don’t talk back, especially if they give you an order. But the German soldiers weren’t authorized to give orders to civilians. They were there to be garrisoned, to ensure Denmark’s neutrality and provide for safe passage to the troops attacking Norway. Danish police still patrolled the streets and maintained law and order. As the days and weeks passed, uniformed soldiers could be seen shopping in the stores, playing soccer in the park, going to the theater and being quite friendly with locals. They were even seen dancing in the dance halls.”
“Did that mean that Denmark’s attitude toward the occupation was changing?”
Britta starts to answer, catches herself, thinks for a moment and finally says, “The answer is yes, it was changing, but on divergent paths. At some point, the attitudes of young people began to sharply split from those of our parents and their generation. We began to feel the loss of Danish pride. We felt that Denmark shouldn’t have rolled over so easily. We began to resent the humiliation, the disgrace of being an occupied country. Signing an agreement giving up our national autonomy without firing a single shot? A protectorate? Like we were little children? There was no way the youth of Denmark would approve of such domination. It was a blow to our national identity. Our generation needed a reason to feel good and it wasn’t going to come from our parents. And I believe that was the start of the resistance. Soon after the invasion, reports began to roll in about the fighting in Norway and we cheered for the Norwegians. They were brave. We wanted to do something brave.
“We listened to reports coming out of Norway. We learned that on April 9, the same day that King Christian and the Danish government were handed the German ultimatum, a similar demand was handed to Norway’s King Haakon. Same terms; either surrender your autonomy to Germany under a cooperative agreement or be annihilated. But unlike Denmark, King Haakon and the Norwegian Parliament rejected the ultimatum. They refused to become a Nazi protectorate. They refused to allow German soldiers to occupy their country. Germany immediately attacked, but the Norwegian army fought back. They stood their ground. They even sank a German ship carrying a thousand soldiers. They fought bravely, and to the young people of Denmark, they became our heroes.
“Although our regular radio stations were a little cautious about criticizing Germany, we were able to follow the battles in Norway on the BBC and on Danish rogue radio stations. We rooted for Norway. British battleships came to Norway’s aid in the coastal cities and we cheered. King Haakon was able to escape to Britain and establish a government-in-exile. We were so proud of them; Norway was fighting, and our parents and our leaders had capitulated without a fight.”
Catherine shakes her head. “That was pretty foolish thinking, Britta. We know what happened to Norway.”
“True. Heroes or not, Norway was unable to hold off Germany for more than a month, and for that they paid a heavy price. Reprisals were swift and brutal. Norwegian soldiers were captured and executed on the spot. Resisters were hanged in the streets, or shot, their bodies left for others to retrieve. ‘You see,’ our parents said to us. ‘Do you still think we were weak or cowardly?’”
“Did the young people think that Denmark should have fought the Nazis? Was that realistic?”
“No, of course not. That would have been foolish. Military resistance was impossible, but we felt some opposition should be shown to the continued occupation. Someone should stand up and declare that we are Danish. We have pride. We refuse to lie down and accept a life of subjugation. We argued that the Cooperation Agreement was a fraud. Cooperative governance of Denmark was nothing more than a paper illusion; our so-called independence existed at Hitler’s sufferance. For the youth, for our generation, we were ashamed, and we felt there were things that we should do.”
In Catherine’s mind, the clock is ticking, and it is time to steer the conversation. She holds up her hand. “Britta, I have the feeling that we’re straying a bit. We need to focus on Ole Henryks, on how he was a traitor, how he became a Nazi collaborator. We need to stay on subject. Norway’s resistance is heartwarming, but we’re losing track…”
Hearing that scolding, Britta stiffens. “I am not losing track! Everything I’m telling you is about heroes and traitors. Norway inspired us to resist. To organize. To form partisan resistance cells. Some of our young people formed secret clubs to create havoc for the occupiers. Some of the kids would flatten tires on Wehrmacht jeeps, or cut telephone wires to German offices. Einar Andersen threw a dead skunk through the window of a German barracks. Ultimately, the organized resistance grew, and the acts of sabotage became far more serious. Don’t you understand? The youth of Denmark were heroic, but sadly, not all of us. Some were cowards, some were opportunists, and some were informers; like Ole and William Hendricksen.”
“Okay then, what did Henryks do that made him a collaborator? It has to be more than marching in a German parade.”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting there. My point is that there were many in Denmark who not only detested the German takeover but who were willing to do something about it. And it began with the young people, Grethe’s generation, who refused to accept their parents’ complacency. Initially, the resistance was no more than mischief. Fires were lit beneath German vehicles. Paint was flung on the wall of a German office. Rocks were thrown through windows. But in the years that followed, the resistance grew in intensity, and by then it wasn’t just the youth.”
“Did Henryks join any of the youth groups that were committing acts of resistance?”
“Hendricksen, you mean. I should say not. Ole was in a group that wore blue shirts, as I told you before. I believe they were called the Blue Shirt Club or the Blue Storm. I don’t know what their professed purpose was, but it wasn’t for Danish liberty. His family felt no shame. I told you, they were flat-out collaborators.”
Catherine sets her pen down on the table. In her mind, she knows she must accelerate the narrative. She reaches over and gently places her hand upon Britta’s. Britta’s skin is smooth and cool. Translucent. Her ancient hand lacks substance; it is thin, discolored and a road map of veins. Catherine can feel tremors. “Please help me, Britta,” she says kindly. “We’ve spent considerable time talking and as far as I can tell, we’re not getting close to the specific proofs we need. I’m sorry that I’m forced to be blunt, but it’s hard for me to imagine why all this background is so important.”
“Do you want the whole story or do you want selected pieces? I thought you wanted to know.”
“I do want to know, but I can’t imagine…”
Britta knows that in this matter, Catherine is her only friend, and she must make her understand. “I know it’s hard for you to imagine, Catherine, because at that moment when Hitler decided to rip up the agreement and send his Gestapo to capture us and send us to our death, the terror we experienced is clearly outside anything you can imagine. I am also sorry to be blunt. There were heroes and there were traitors. There were those that stood up for us and those that turned us in. In the court of law, you are not only my pathfinder, you are my voice. When you speak for me, I want you to feel the story of Denmark; feel it in your heart and in your soul. Then you will know why it is so important to expose a man like Hendricksen. In this regard you must trust me. Stay with me a little longer, my young friend, and feel what I feel. Come with me just a little farther and then it will be possible for you to imagine things, like a young girl hiding in a locked storeroom, where it’s dark and musty and she’s there with her parents and a little baby. She’s there because outside, there are wolves, snarling, drooling, growling. Cowards, traitors, soulless informants have directed the wolves to the location. She dare not make a sound or leave to use the bathroom. She prays the baby will not cry. Her life depends on it.”
Catherine is silent. Her lips are closed and she breathes quietly through her nostrils. Her eyes are being opened.
Britta continues, her head held high. “Imagine a young girl lying in a hospital bed even though she is not sick. There is an oxygen tent covering her head and a sheet pulled up over part of her face. The wolves are circling the hospital, searching for her. On occasion, one will enter the hospital ward, walk slowly down the aisle and scan the patients with his steely green eyes. He is hungry. He bares his teeth and they are sharp. Some informant has told this wolf that the young girl is there, but he does not see her. Yet. As the wolf passes, the young girl can feel his breath, but she must lie perfectly still with eyes closed, pretending to be near death.
“Imagine you are all alone, just five years old, and someone you don’t know, a strange woman suddenly grabs you by the wrist and dashes off into the night, pulling you toward the sea. It is dark and cold, you are out of breath and you stumble, but you know you must outrun the wolves.”
Britta looks at Catherine, past her eyes and into her heart. “Sounds terrifying, doesn’t it, Catherine, and I know it is hard for you to imagine such a dark and hideous nightmare. Or the fact that it wasn’t a nightmare at all. You have no point of reference to fathom the terror that overwhelms a young girl. The fear is beyond anything you have ever experienced. But if you stay with me, Catherine, I will bring you to an understanding. There were heroes, there were cowards and there were flat-out traitors.”
Emma reaches over to pat her grandmother on the arm. “Bubbe, don’t come down hard on Catherine, she’s only…”
“Don’t, Emma,” Catherine says softly. “Bubbe is right. I have no idea. None of us do.” Catherine stands. “When I speak for you, Britta, I will try to do so with the same conviction. We’ll do this at your speed. I apologize for pushing you. Why don’t we all take a quick breather.”
LIAM AND CATHERINE walk out to the reception room. Catherine raises her eyes, flicks away a tear and shakes her head. “She was right, you know. I have no idea. Was I a monster to push her? To doubt her?”
Liam places his arm around her shoulders and brings her to him. “Don’t ever think that. You’re a lawyer and you’re trying to do your job. Keeping her on target is the right move. You’re trying to serve your client’s interests.”
“How does it serve my client’s interests when I discount her intelligence? She knows what the court order says. She knows we need specific facts and that we are under a deadline. In truth, she’s doing exactly what I want my clients to do; she’s giving me the whole and not just pieces.”
Gladys suddenly interrupts. “Liam, I don’t know if it’s important, but I’ve been seeing this dude walking back and forth in front of our office. He’s got a paper bag in his hand. Sometimes he stops in front of our window like he’s going to do something nasty, but someone else will come along and he’ll scoot away like an alley rat. Whatever he’s doing, it ain’t right.”
“How many times have you seen him?”
“A few, but I’m not always looking at the window, you know?”
“Is he out there now?” Liam asks.
“I’m not sure, I don’t see him.”
“Let’s go take a look.”
They walk out and peer up and down Clark Street, but Gladys shakes her head.
“I don’t see him now.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Caucasian, medium height, medium build, no facial hair. He’s in a tan jacket and a red baseball cap pulled low over his head. Brown hair, I think. He’s got a weaselly look about him, I ain’t lyin’.” Gladys shrugs. “Sorry. I’m not much help, I’m afraid.”
Liam smiles. “You did well. Let me know right away if he comes back.”
THE GROUP REASSEMBLES and Catherine picks up her notepad. “Britta, let’s go back to where we left off,” she says, and then she smiles. “Not the part about the wolves. I get that. I want to talk about the resistance. I have two questions. The first one intrigues me. I want to know what happened when Einar threw the skunk into the German barracks.”
Britta chuckles at the memory. “We all thought it was pretty funny, I must admit. I think it must have happened in July, about three months after the invasion. It was very warm, and the German soldiers slept with their barracks windows open. One of our friends told Einar that he had killed a skunk, and Einar got the idea of tossing it into the German quarters. He got up at four-thirty and rode his bike carrying the skunk in a cloth sack. When he got to the barracks, he pulled the skunk out of the sack, dropped it through the open window and pedaled away as fast as he could. Apparently, the sleeping soldiers didn’t discover it right away because it wasn’t until an hour later that they came pouring out of the building. Several of Einar’s friends lay in hiding across the street. The kids all scattered and met up later for a laugh.”
Catherine, Emma and Liam are struck by the humor. “I had never heard that, Bubbe,” Emma says between her bursts of laughter. “That’s precious.”
“Einar had dashed home and jumped into his bathtub,” Britta says. “He was afraid the stink would give him away. He did a good job of cleaning up, but Maryanne, his girlfriend, wouldn’t hug him or kiss him for a whole week.”
“That’s a wonderful story,” Catherine says. “Here’s my second question—it’s more serious. How did your father feel about the rebellious students and their pranks? After all, he was a member of Parliament, which had accepted Germany’s ultimatum not to resist.”
“Well, he didn’t approve, but let’s be fair, my father, like the other parents, was worried that the kids might be captured and disciplined. Maybe even jailed. The Danish police were charged with enforcing the law. If they abandoned their duty, the Nazis would take over. It was dangerous. ‘Foolhardy,’ my father said.”
“Liam!” Gladys yells from the other room. “That creep’s out front again. He’s lookin’ around, peeping in the window and taking something out of his bag. I think he’s gonna throw something. I’m going after him.”
“Damn!” Liam says. “I have to catch that girl.”
“Gladys’ll get hurt,” Emma says.
“No,” Liam answers, “Gladys can take care of herself. I’m worried about the guy.” He jumps out of his chair and dashes for the front door. The man takes off down Clark Street with Gladys fast behind him and Liam behind her. They catch up to him two blocks away. Liam grabs him by his upper arms and pins him against a wall.
The man squirms and tries to break loose, but Liam’s grip is strong. “What the hell, man, leave me alone. Who the hell are you?”
“What were you doing outside my office?” Gladys says. “What was you about to throw?”
“I wasn’t throwin’ nothin,’ you crazy bitch. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What office? Let me loose.”
“Let me ask you that question again,” Liam says, squeezing his arms. “What were you doing outside our office?”
“Look, I got a right to be on the sidewalk anywhere I please. I don’t give a shit about your office. Now let go of me ’fore I call the cops.”
“Maybe I do that for you,” Gladys says. “Where’s your paper bag, smartass, and don’t hand me any bullshit, like you didn’t have one.”
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “I must have dropped it somewhere.”
“What was in it?” Gladys says, her face inches from his.
“Like it’s any of your business, bitch.”
Liam looks at Gladys, smiles and raises his eyebrows. “You know, buddy, I ought to let this Puerto Rican girl bust your ass. And don’t think she can’t. What was in the bag?”
“It was my lunch. Now let me go before you end up in more trouble than you can handle.”
Unfazed, Liam tightens his grip. The man winces in pain. “Really. You working for the Mafia now, tough guy? Who sent you?”
“Your mother, after I finished with her.”
One straw too many. Liam grabs a fistful of the man’s jacket lapel, lifts him in the air and slams him back against the brick wall. “Who. Sent. You. I’m losing my patience.”
The man swallows hard. “Look man, let me go, okay? I got paid a hondo to look in a window and tell him what I saw. That’s it, okay?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Tell me who? Who paid you?”
“I don’t know, I swear. Some guy. Paid me a bill to tell him who was sitting in an office. That’s it. I swear.”
“What was in the bag?”
“Nothing. My lunch, I’m telling you. I dropped it when you and this crazy bitch was chasing me.”
Liam spins him around, lifts his wallet out of his back pocket, snaps a cell phone picture of the driver’s license and says, “Mr. Rivers, you tell Six-o’clock Sparks if I ever see you hanging around my wife’s office again, I’m gonna break both your arms. And then I’m coming after him. You got it?”
The man shrugs himself loose, straightens up, turns and walks away, mumbling a string of profanities. Liam starts back to the office when he spies a paper bag lying on the sidewalk. Inside is a can of spray paint.