‘How were you received in Sweden?’

The boat that took us to Sweden was called Rönnskär and was a cargo boat that had been converted into ambulance transport. It was a new experience for me — I had never travelled by boat, never seen the sea. We were not allowed to be on deck during the day, the war was not yet over and the North Sea was riddled with mines. Pilot boats scouted out a route forward, and we had to stay moored at night. That is when I was allowed to go upstairs, breathe the sea air, and enjoy the panoramic view. I relished the journey.

Our expectations were high. My fellow passengers and I felt that we had been chosen for a new life, where we would be treated as special guests and all of our needs would be satisfied. Our beds on the boat were made with paper sheets, and their rustling at my slightest movement made me feel special, like a praline wrapped in silver tissue. Three days and three nights passed quickly, and we were joyous when we arrived in Malmö. We were met by lottor, members of the women’s wing of the Swedish Home Guard, who brought us cocoa and sandwiches. We thought that we had ended up in paradise, and could not get enough of the sandwiches and that heavenly drink, cocoa. For me, ever since then cocoa has been the very emblem of the good life in Sweden.

From the port, we were driven by tram to the Linnaeus School, where we were to be housed. What I remember most from that time is the food. The good food, horseradish beef, and the strange food, black pudding with little hats of lingonberries, which went down fine nonetheless. We ate and ate, and were never full. The food was the bright spot in our lives, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. We were served five meals a day, but were always afraid that we would run out. Most of us took food from the dining hall and hid it under our pillows. The fact that we were allowed to get sandwiches between meals did not stop us, nor did the patient staff’s assurances that there would always be more food. This insatiable hunger affected us for the rest of our lives in different ways: some of us became anorexic, but most of us have, ever since then, kept an overstocked fridge.

The locals gathered outside the school fence to peek at the survivors from Bergen-Belsen, but we were forbidden from approaching them. We were kept in quarantine for six weeks, and only then were we allowed to acquaint ourselves with the Swedes outside. They were kind and curious, some brought small gifts, but they did not really want to hear our stories. We were well received; it was not yet an opportune time for people to show their prejudice, their Nazi leanings, their anti-Semitism. All of this was swept under the rug. Not until the 1980s did Nazism begin to surface again, to spread once more. When I think about it, I can see this pattern today, too. People are empathetic; they want to help, to share their abundance, but as soon as it becomes a matter of making sacrifices, sharing in the narrower sense, or giving up one’s time, it becomes more difficult.

We felt welcome in Sweden. When the initial euphoria had settled and we experienced our first setbacks, we began to think about leaving the country. But slowly we got used to Sweden, and Sweden got used to us. We learnt that there is no paradise on earth. In Sweden, like in other countries, some things are good, others bad. So now, I feel at home.