We sat like actors in a play waiting for the appearance of the bad guy. It wasn’t long before we heard their heavy tread on the front step. They didn’t knock but entered and walked straight through to the conservatory. It was as if they knew the layout of the apartment exactly. There were five of them—four Danes from the Schalburg Corps and one German SS officer. They were big men with short, sharp haircuts. In their uniforms and carrying their guns they looked terrifying, but Papa managed to stand as they entered and gave a small nod.
“Good evening, gentlemen. You have come to call perhaps on the great Marie Skovlund. We have had many visitors in her last days. You are welcome.”
The men had searched many apartments that evening, but this was the first time anyone had said they were welcome. It stopped them in their tracks for the moment.
Mama lay on her day bed and she was magnificent. As the men entered the conservatory, she tried to raise her head to greet them but instead gave a very slight consumptive cough and fell back on her pillows.
“What’s the matter with her?” demanded one of the Danes, suddenly anxious he might catch something dreadful.
“It won’t be long.” Mama’s “nurse” shook her head and wiped a tear from her eye. “I told her not to drink out of damp glasses.”
You could tell Mama was really into her part at that point, or I think she would have hit Thomas for overacting. There was silence from the five men. This was not what they had expected, and they weren’t sure what to do next. I was sure they were looking at Thomas suspiciously but didn’t quite like to say what a strong-looking woman she was.
“Where are the Jews?” one of them demanded.
“Jews?” said Papa, looking confused. He stretched out his hands in a display of total honesty. “You may search where you like. We have been too busy with poor Marie.”
“The greatest actress ever to grace the Danish stage.” The “nurse” sniffed and began to weep silently.
I think the men were embarrassed. They glanced through to the other rooms and stared straight at the false wall. With the dim lighting and the potted plants, it was impossible to tell that it wasn’t the end of the apartment. Suddenly, one of the men looked at Mama.
“I’ve seen you at the theater. How do we know you’re not just acting sick? Come on, get up,” and with that he pulled the covers off Mama with one rough move. Thomas gave a little shriek. Mama’s legs lay exposed to all. They looked awful. The man was mortified.
“Oh God, sorry, I’m so sorry.” Clumsily he tried to cover Mama up again, but Thomas gave him a little slap on the hand and he stumbled back out of the way. Things were going well. Mama gave a slight cough again and beckoned the SS officer to come closer. He leaned down toward her and she whispered with great intensity:
“… But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”
The officer nodded. He had no idea what it meant or that it was from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He stood up and cleared his throat and looked sympathetically at Papa.
“She’s not well, is she?”
Papa shook his head in sorrow.
“It’s the drugs,” sighed the “nurse,” and took Mother’s pulse for the tenth time. Even though I thought both Mama and Thomas had gone too far, I also thought it had worked and that the men were about to leave. That was when Uncle Johann gave a loud moan. It made everyone jump.
“What was that?” said the SS officer.
Everyone looked at everyone else. Uncle Johann moaned again. You could have cut the tension in the room just as Mama had done her legs.
“It’s the cow,” said Masha, who, to be fair, had spent more time in the yard than anyone else that summer and presumably knew the cow pretty well.
“A cow? In the middle of the city?” scoffed the men.
“Come and look,” I said, jumping up. The men came to the window and looked down at Mrs. Jensen’s cow.
“For the milk,” one of the men, who had grown up in the country, said with a smile.
“Actually, the taxi driver runs his car on her poo,” I said.
There was a pause. I think the men might have been thinking they had entered a mad house. The SS man looked down at the plants on the shelf below him. He was standing right in front of the geranium with the hidden gun in it. I had shoved the gun in rather hastily, and there was earth spilled all over the white woodwork.
“What’s this?” said the man, and put his hand down to the plant. I think the entire flat held its breath. Had he seen the gun? At last he held up what had attracted his attention. It was one of my toy soldiers.
“Look,” he declared, laughing, “I have found the whole of the Danish army.” Everyone laughed. Uncle Johann moaned again and everyone laughed louder. Thomas took Mama’s pulse. He was beginning to rub her wrist raw.
“Enough, enough,” he declared. “Miss Skovlund must rest.”
“Sorry, so sorry, of course.” The five men bowed and the German clicked his heels.
“Miss Skovlund, it has been an honor. I have passed many happy hours in your company at the theater. My apologies for the inconvenience and best wishes for a speedy recovery.”
With what seemed like her final effort, Mama presented the officer with her hand to kiss and then apparently fell back in a dead faint. The men hurried from the room to go and search somewhere else. Papa followed them to the front door, and they were nearly gone when one of them reached down to the newly positioned hall rug. Papa swallowed hard, fearing the man would move the rug and see Johann’s blood, but he simply straightened the carpet, stood up, and said, “Could have a nasty accident with that if you’re not careful.”
“Yes, thank you,” managed Papa.
And then the men were gone and the door was closed. Everyone was still too scared to celebrate, so we left the lights low and talked in excited whispers. Mama hit Thomas for overacting and he said he was appalled at the length of her Shakespeare quote. It was, without doubt, Mama’s finest theatrical performance. I never forgot it because, sadly, it would also be her last.