As far as I could see, life for my Jewish friends was the same as before. There were some Danish Nazis who had broken into the synagogue on Krystal Street and tried to burn it down, but everyone I knew thought that was terrible. They were shocked that any Danes could do such a thing. The police had caught them and sent them to prison for three years, but Anton’s mother, Mrs. Beilin, could not rest.
“We hold our breath,” she would say while she fussed over Gilda, Anton’s little sister. “We all just hold our breath.”
Gilda was only five and I’m sure she had no idea what her father meant when he said, “We should leave. It is like growing grapes on the slopes of a volcano— as long as it only smokes, you think you can live with the danger. But once the lava comes, it is usually too late to run.”
Mr. Beilin had a German accent. He came from Hamburg and it seemed odd to me that he should want to run from his own people.
“You and your volcanoes,” scoffed Mrs. B. “You can run. Nineteen thirty-eight we all ran from Hamburg, but I am not going anywhere anymore. This is my home.”
Anton would insist, “We’re Danes, Papa. You’re Danish now. The king will protect us.”
Mr. B. would shrug and rub the little black skullcap he wore on his head. “Better to escape once too often than not at all.”
“Where is there to run to?” muttered Mrs. B. as she combed Gilda s hair.
I didn’t want them to run. I didn’t want Anton to go anywhere. We didn’t know yet that the German leader, Adolf Hitler, was already putting together the “final solution,” his plan to rid Europe of all Jews; that the Nazis were already forcing Jews into concentration camps in the east, where they would be either worked to death or killed in the gas chambers.
Some of Anton’s fear was now beginning to be replaced once more by his love of daring exploits. Near our flat there was a main intersection where for some months a German soldier had been directing traffic from behind an island of sandbags. He looked very self-important as he pointed to cars and made them stop while he allowed others to pass by. When he stood behind his wall of sandbags, you could see only his top half. One morning Anton was busy scribbling something on a piece of paper in the hall.
“What are you doing?” I asked, thinking it was some new game.
Anton folded the paper and gave me a large pin to hold. “Come on,” he said, grinning, and raced off to get his bike.
I didn’t know what was going on but I knew Anton and I knew trouble was brewing. He had that wicked look in his eye. We cycled to the road before the intersection with the sandbag soldier, and Anton parked his bike. The soldier stood in the middle of the crossroads and would turn to face each road in turn as he moved the traffic on. I followed Anton as he snuck down through the shadows from the flats on our left. We got to the crossroads just as the soldier turned to face us, and Anton waved cheerily at him. The soldier ignored him and turned around to direct the next set of traffic. As he did so, Anton shot across the road.
“Come on, Bamse,” he called.
I have no idea why I followed him except that I always did. The soldier was now facing away from us. Anton knelt on the road and unfolded his piece of paper.
“Give me the pin,” he whispered urgently. I couldn’t find the wretched thing in my pocket, and when at last I did, the soldier was about to turn back in our direction. Anton jammed the pin into the paper so that it hung on the sandbags, and we ran for our lives back to the street corner. Puffing and panting, Anton ordered, “Act casual. Look relaxed.”
We leaned against a lamppost and waved to the soldier. It was only then that I saw what Anton had written on the paper:
Attention! This soldier is not wearing trousers!
It was kid’s stuff, but we could see all the people passing in their cars laughing and the soldier looking more and more confused. Anton and I shook hands in delight, our shoulders shaking. It was a mission well done and we were very pleased with ourselves. Still laughing, we turned back to get our bikes and walked straight into my brother.
Orlando happened to be on one of his deliveries and he had seen the whole thing. I thought he would find it funny too, but he was furious. He grabbed us both by our collars.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Anton tried to wriggle free. I could see he was cross too.
“Let go, Orlando. We were just trying to help. We want to do something too, you know, but everyone says we’re too young.”
Orlando let go and looked at us both. “You cannot play at this. We are at war,” he said.
“I know,” replied Anton, “so give us something useful to do.”
Anton and Orlando looked so serious: my tiny friend and my great big brother, both ready to fight—but not each other. I hadn’t realized until then that Anton wanted to do something other than play a joke. We had always just had fun.
Playing a joke. That was how Anton and I first started fighting back, and pretty soon we realized that Orlando was right. It wasn’t funny at all.