BRITTA IS SLEEPING when Emma and Catherine arrive. “I can tell you, your grandmother is pretty bossy,” the nurse says. “She’s demanded to be wheeled around the fifth floor twice already today. I believe it has tired her out. She wants to do too much. Remember, she is recovering from heart failure and a stroke.”
“She wants to go to the courthouse in five days,” Emma says. “Do you think she’ll be discharged by then?”
“To go to a courthouse? No. I would be surprised if she was discharged to go to a rehabilitation facility in five days.”
“Hello, Emma,” Britta says slowly. “When … did you … come? I … sleeping.”
“We just arrived, Bubbe. How are you doing today?”
She makes a fist. “Great.” She tips her head toward her wheelchair and says, “Ride?”
“Maybe you’ve had enough for one day, Bubbe. Don’t push it.”
Britta pouts. She holds up a finger and circles it around to indicate another whirl around the fifth floor.
“Maybe in a little while,” Emma says.
“Can we talk about the Blue Shirt Club for a minute?” Catherine says. “You said you saw Ole running around in a blue shirt.”
Britta nods.
“And he was in a club with other boys who all wore the same blue shirts? You’re certain?”
Britta glares.
“Okay, you’re certain. Short or long sleeve?”
She points to her arm right above the elbow.
Catherine shows her a copy of the photograph of Ole standing with his father and another boy at the Copenhagen harbor. The photo is in black and white. “Is Ole wearing the shirt in this photo?”
Britta squints. “Could be.”
Catherine produces color charts that Emma picked up from a paint store showing a variety of blue shades. “Do you think you could tell me which shade of blue those shirts were?”
Britta studies the paper and points to a sample. “This.”
Catherine circles the color and hands it to Emma. “When we’re done, I’d like you to take this to the office and hand it to Gladys. Tell her I need a short-sleeve shirt dyed in this color blue.”
Once again, Emma is puzzled. “We have no corroboration that the Blue Shirt Club betrayed the Holger Club, or that it engaged in any anti-resistance activities. In fact, we have no evidence that Hendricksen was even a member of the Blue Shirt Club.”
“Ole doesn’t know what we have.” Catherine picks up the notebook.
Britta’s Notebook
Throughout the summer of 1944 and into the fall, we cheered for the Allied advances in Europe from our Jewish expat community in Malmö, Sweden. My father had acquired a shortwave radio and we kept up with world affairs the best we could. We were living in a rented apartment, one bedroom with a pull-down Murphy bed. My father had steady work from the accounting firm, and my mother worked twice a week in the bakery. I spent a lot of time with Isabel. She was growing like a sunflower, looking every bit like her mother. Celia, the girl that accompanied us from St. Vincent’s, lived with us for a while until we connected with her aunt in Malmö.
The summer was full of walks to the sea and outings with my friends. Several of my high school friends lived near us. All in all, it was pleasant enough, but Grethe’s absence hung over us like a black cloud. We hadn’t heard a word from her in over a year. Had she gone into hiding? Did she and Lukas ever make their way back to St. Vincent’s? We still held on to the possibility that she had survived and would come knocking on our door, but we knew it was a long shot.
One season turned into the next and as 1945 progressed, it became obvious that Germany was losing the war. We listened intently to the BBC. Like before, we’d gather in the living room around the radio. Two-year-old Isabel would walk into the living room, point at the radio and say, “BBC time.” We heard how the Russian army had retaken Warsaw in January, had liberated Auschwitz and was now fifty miles from Berlin. American troops continued to advance from the west, crossing the Rhine and taking Cologne. The Allies relentlessly bombed German cities, and the ancient city of Dresden was essentially destroyed. As March drew to a close, General Eisenhower issued a demand that Germany surrender.
On May 1, 1945, the BBC broadcast a bulletin that Adolf Hitler had committed suicide with his wife in their underground bunker. On May 2, the BBC interrupted its broadcast to report that German troops in Italy had surrendered to the Allies.
On the evening of May 4, as we gathered to listen, we heard an excited announcer say, “This is London, the BBC, broadcasting to Denmark. At this moment, it is being announced that Montgomery has stated that the German troops in the Netherlands, northwest Germany and Denmark have surrendered. This is London. We repeat: Montgomery has just now announced that the German troops in the Netherlands, northwest Germany and Denmark have surrendered.”
My mother picked up Isabel, said a prayer and twirled her around. Five years of occupation were over. There was dancing in the streets of Malmö. We could all make plans to go home.
A large flotilla was arranged to bring us back to Denmark. Plans were announced in Sweden and in Denmark. We boarded our boats in Malmö Harbor, said goodbye to our Swedish saviors and headed for Copenhagen. It was a longer trip than the one we had taken in 1943. The crossing was farther south, where the Øresund was broader. On our way across the sea there were many animated conversations. It had been eighteen months. What should we expect? What will our city, our homes look like? Will they still be there? As the harbor came into view, we saw thousands of people standing on the beaches. They were there to welcome us back home, cheering and waving red and white flags. Our country’s flags. Their Jewish brothers and sisters, their Danish brothers and sisters, were returning home safe and sound.
We walked from the harbor toward our home through streets filled with celebrants. In an unprecedented gesture of kindness, the citizens of Copenhagen had taken care of our homes for us in our absence. They had kept them neat and secure. Many people found that their houses had been regularly dusted and cleaned, and the tables were set for their return. There was never a doubt in any of their minds that we were an integral part of our nation’s community, and that we would return. Never had I been so proud to be a Dane.
We held little hope that Grethe and Lukas would be waiting for us and, sadly, we were right. Our house was empty; there were no signs of Lukas or Grethe. Like so many other Jewish homes, our house had been loved and cared for in our absence. There was a vase of fresh flowers on the dining room table with a note that read, “Welcome home, Morgensterns. Your friend, Rose.”
I sat with Isabel in Grethe’s room for a time. She was only two and would probably not remember, but I wanted her to see her mother’s room as it was when she was born. We would make it into a little girl’s room for her soon afterward. I sat there and cried. What was it all for? Millions dead, families destroyed. Cities burned. For what?
About a week after we returned, we had a visit from Tommy. He had put off visiting us because he was embarrassed. He felt responsible for Grethe’s fate. Against his better judgment, he had driven her back to Copenhagen, to Lukas, on the night we sailed for Sweden.
“I should have never let her back into my truck,” he said. “We stood there on the bluff overlooking the harbor and she told me that she had to go home and take care of her husband. She wanted to care for him, get him healthy and then bring him to Elsinore. I knew at the time how bad Lukas was. The Gestapo had beaten him so badly, I knew he’d never be the same, that his chances of recovering were poor. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I just couldn’t. But I should have.” Tommy stopped and swallowed hard. “She just loved him so much. She thought she could nurse him back to health with the power of her love. And she tried, Lord a-mighty, how she tried. But he died about three weeks after she returned. I told her then that I would drive her to Elsinore and get her on a boat, but she insisted on giving Lukas a proper burial.
“Lukas Holstrum’s funeral was a beacon for the Gestapo. Out in the open, and in the middle of his service, they came into the church and took her away.” Tommy hung his head. “So, in truth, I am responsible, and I feel so bad. She was such a good person, full of love. She told me she was grateful that she had been able to comfort Lukas in the last days of his life.”
Catherine closes the book.
Britta places her hand on top of the notebook. Her eyes are full of tears. She speaks slowly and deliberately, making sure to state each word clearly. “For many years … I thought about … Ole Hendricksen. I … cursed him. He…” She runs her tongue over her lips. “… brought Gestapo to bookstore … for Lukas. H-he … caused their deaths. If not … for betrayal … my sister would’ve survived.” Britta stops. She takes a sip of water. “Years passed. Ole long out of my thoughts. I saw … newspaper. Honored. A war hero.” She scowls. “I couldn’t let that go.”