It Was That Night

  “I am never going to forget That Night. Never. Fear cuts like icy needles into my skin. My stomach is nauseous: We are on the beach. Some people have begun wading through the water to the rowing boat that will take us to the big trawler. The alarm sounds. Gestapo-Lund is here. I hear tramping German boots in the street. How many knots can a stomach have?”

  13-year old Claire is suddenly caught up in a chain of events that reaches back to the Danish Occupation. What started in 1943 now reaches its completion in 1983, with a very reluctant Claire who only wishes for one thing: To be normal.

  “...the narrative is intense and empathic, causing the reader to experience and participate in the story.”

  - Inger Mose, Walden education

  “Serious fiction within the setting of realism, but accommodating a layer of metaphysics: a kind of both ghost and fate story.”

  - Jakob C. Krohn, MA (comparative literature)

  “This is a fine and important story that Barfod tells. The dead Ursula adds a new perspective to the faded war narrative; the book deals with both clairvoyance and ethnic cleansing. There is a good energy and drive throughout and the story becomes very relevant in the light of immigration and refugee issues in recent years.”

  - Bente Clod, author

  (ministry of culture award, 2002)

  (Danske litteratur award, 2009)

  It

  was

  that

  night

  Rikke Barfod

  

  Copyright ©2019 Rikke Barfod

  All rights reserved

  The right of Rikke Barfod to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designers and Patents Act, 1988.No paragraph or illustration of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted without written permission from the author in accordance with the provision of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  ePublishify eBook

  ISBN 978-8793886-04-9

  Cover and illustrations by Anja Barfod Thorbek

  ePublishify Denmark

  All characters in this publication are fictitious; resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The historical facts however, are correct.

  eCopyright disclaimer

  The author and publisher have provided this eBook for you for your personal use only. You may not make this eBook publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this eBook you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher.

  Contents

  Prologue

  It was that night

  Epilogue:

  A Danish Dunkerque

  Historical facts

  People

  Glossary

  About the Author

   Prologue

  Fiskersund

  October 1946

  One sunny morning in October more than a year after the war had ended, Hannah, Ruben and their seventeen-year old son, Isaac, took the ferry from Sweden across the Sound to Elsinore.

  They had their new passports. The crossing took twenty minutes.

  “So easy!” Hannah exclaimed, remembering the long hours they had spent in the hull, crossing that awful night almost three years ago. Now, the sea was calm. Isaac was silent and sullen. His stomach felt queasy. His hands were clammy and his thoughts were churning around and around: Had Ursula been found?

  The town of Elsinore looked quaint. Very old houses; some looked like they could tumble down at any moment, cobbled streets and Hamlet’s castle, Kronborg, guarding the city at the entrance to the harbour.

  They got on the local train. The train passed through fields and forests. The village looked the same, small and weather beaten. They found the house. A yellow house looking out to the beach. Ruben knocked on the door. A woman with flour on her hands, wearing an apron, came out. A delicious whiff of newly baked bread mingled with the scent of roses from the garden.

  “We, we …” Ruben stopped. What on earth did one say?

  Hannah took over: “Well, we escaped from here in 1943. We were told that my sister, Leah, had her baby at this address.”

  Marie twisted her hands in the apron. Doomsday was staring straight into her face. The thing she had feared for three years.

  “Mama, Mama, make cakes.” A tiny girl came running into the hallway.

  “Ursula?” Hannah gasped. “But that can’t be true ….” All the blood left her face.

  “Come in.” Marie – her face as white as Hannah’s – showed them into the living room.

  “Please sit down. I’ll make coffee.” She almost ran back into the kitchen.

  The little girl stood with her thumb in her mouth whilst the other hand twisted a curl. Isaac began crying.

  “There, mein Knabe.” Ruben put his arm around him.

  Hannah sat staring at the little girl. “Ach nein,” she whispered.

  In the kitchen, Marie took the biscuits out of the oven. Fortunately, they hadn’t burned. She started making coffee. As long as her hands were busy, she didn’t have to think of the dreadful thing waiting in the living room. Maybe if she closed her eyes it would disappear completely. But no. Muffled voices still came from the room. She heard the child prattling. Grey clouds spun around her head. She plumped down on the stool, staring at nothing, drying her hands automatically in her apron. Got up, found cups and plates. Sat again. Got up, put everything on a tray and walked unsteadily into the room.

  Isaac had stopped crying. Ruben took the tray from Marie’s shaking hands, put it on the table, and helped her to sit down. A long pause which seemed never to end – and felt like it drew all the air into it – almost suffocated Marie. Ruben cleared his throat, but it was Hannah who broke the silence.

  “Leah, is she also alive?” She whispered.

  The hope in the words hit Marie like a violently thrown snowball.

  “No, she died after the birth. Pneumonia and puerile fever. I had just lost my own son two days before, so …” She stammered. Stopped. What more was there to say? She fisted her hand, pressed it into the pain in her chest. Gulped air down to her parched lungs.

  The air revived her voice. She continued, “We took her and pretended she was ours, so the Germans shouldn’t …”

  “Jah, ich verstehe.” Hannah rose, stretched her arms towards the child. “Come, Liebschen Sarah.”

  “Sarah?”

  “Yes, Sarah.” Hannah felt that if she continued talking, the world might right itself and stop spinning crazily around.

  “Leah said that if it was a girl her name was to be Sarah. She was sure it was going to be another girl.”

  Hannah stretched out her arms again and said, “Come.”

  The child looked at her shyly and crawled up onto Marie’s lap. She clasped Inga closely.

  Hannah felt like choking. Finally, a relative. One who had survived. The longing spread through her body – she wanted to hold tight to the little one. Leah’s child. They could take her with them. She could …

  A clacking of clogs made them all sit up straight. The tension in the atmosphere broke into a common sigh as Gustav entered.

  “We have guests?” He asked. He looked around, took in Marie’s empty face, the trace of tears on Isaac’s – and Hannah’s white face.

  “Aha,” he muttered.

  “We took her in.” He addressed Ruben who looked the least upset. “Marie was dying, but the little one gave her back the will to live, and we hoped, we hoped …”

  “… that nobody would come to ask for her,” Ruben continued. In the midst of feeling utterly confused, Hannah marvelled at how calm and composed his voice sounded.

  “Yes,” Gustav whispered. “We are so very fo
nd of her.”

  “Mama, cake?” Inga held out her hand.

  The child’s question pulled Marie back from her emptiness. She started pouring coffee and offering cake.

  Gustav slumped down into a chair.

  “We adopted her after the war,” he said.

  Hannah rose: “How was that possible? She belongs to us. We are her family. We are, of course, deeply thankful to you for having taken care of her and ....”

  Ruben whispered something. Hannah shook her head and answered in Yiddish, “She is ours. It’s Leah’s child. Is she going to grow up without knowing her family, without knowing who she is – and what if Jacov is still alive?”

  Ruben turned to Gustav, “There is a tiny chance that Jacov, her father, is still alive. At least, so far nobody has been able to tell us that he is dead.”

  Gustav nodded. Marie cleared her throat. She didn’t recognize her croaking voice or the words that came out, “I guess it is like in the bible with the sword of Solomon and the two mothers.” Tears slid down her cheeks unnoticed. “But if it is for the best …” The thought of being without Inga opened up a dark hole filled with unspeakable emptiness. To still her thoughts she offered more cakes, took a bite of one herself. She couldn’t chew. Her mouth had dried up.

  Gustav shook his head. “This is too difficult,” he said. “We need a priest.”

  “Then we also need a Rabbi,” Hannah said, twisting her hands.

  “Dadda, why Mama crying?”

  “How stupid you are.” Isaac was red in the face. “Let her stay here. You are talking about going to Palestine. What should she do there?”

  “But Isaac, she is Jewish.” Hannah looked at him in amazement.

  Isaac spread out his hands: “So what? What good did being Jewish ever bring us?”

  Gustav and Marie looked from one to the other. They did not understand the words, only the tone of voice brought a faint wisp of hope. Did the foreign family not agree?

  Ruben looked at Gustav and asked: “What shall we do? If we knew that Jacov, her father, is alive it would be easier.”

  “But, but …” Hannah rocked backwards and forwards. “She is my sister’s child.”

  Isaac looked at her for a long time. “Where do you think she would prefer to be?” he finally asked.

  Hannah and Ruben were both silent. Hannah felt nauseous. The room was spinning faster and faster. She tried to bring some sanity back into her universe.

  “But Ursula, where is Ursula?” she asked.

  Gustav answered, “Before your sister died, she kept saying the name ‘Ursula’. But we don’t know anything.”

  Isaac stiffened. It was coming. The terrible. The dreadful.

  “We did try and find out after your sister’s death. But nobody knew anything about a little girl.” Gustav fell silent.

  “But the school, the attic …” Isaac had to know.

  “The Germans took over the school the next day. We don’t really know what they used it for,” Gustav said.

  “But the Germans left more than a year ago,” Isaac stammered.

  “Ach, ach.” Hannah twisted her hands again. “Leah, where is she buried?”

  “We had to bury her in the churchyard. The priest arranged it in secret.”

  “Ach, not in the Jewish cemetary?”

  “We didn’t dare.”

  Ruben scratched his chin: “We understand. We are so very grateful that you helped my sister-in-law, but maybe we can move the coffin to Copenhagen and bury her there, in the Jewish cemetery?”

  “Why not.” Gustav filled his pipe. “That’s the least difficulty, but …” He did not dare to continue. The four grown-ups looked at each other. Inga jumped down from Marie’s lap, fetched her doll, and sat playing on the carpet.

  Ruben quickly decided for and against. For: To keep Hannah happy. Against: He didn’t really want to take care of a toddler. There was also the question of Isaac. If they kept the girl, she would be a constant reminder of Ursula. The boy had suffered enough. He was still seeing a psychologist, learning to deal with his betrayal. Ruben carefully did not reveal his thoughts. Instead he said: “Hannah, Liebschen, I think you should decide. She is Leah’s child, but it might be difficult to bring her with us if we get the chance to emigrate.”

  Hannah looked unseeingly at the floor. Isaac was right. The child belonged here. But … Leah. What would Leah have wanted? What was best for the child, of course. Hannah sat stiffly. Her thoughts formulated themselves as she watched the child climb onto the mother’s lap. Yes, it was so obviously the mother. The way they fitted into each other. Hannah nodded. She broke the silence. “But if you are to keep her, you have to call her Sarah and tell her that you are not her real parents.”

  Ruben stared at her. Was she really letting go of the girl?

  Hannah continued, “And you have to send photos and keep in touch, so we can tell Jacov, when we find him.” She turned to Ruben, “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I can see she is happy here,” he said.

  Gustav and Marie looked at each other. The corners of Marie’s mouth loosened. “But will you … do you think …. She means so much to us, but we do not know anything about Jews or Judaism.”

  Hannah sighed. “As long as you don’t give her pork.”

  Marie looked at the floor. “We have, but I’ll never do it again.”

  “And you must promise to tell her about being Jewish.”

  Marie folded her hands and whispered: “I will find some books in the library. And thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. And you must, of course, visit as often as you want to.”

  Ruben looked at Hannah and answered: “Thank you. It might be a bit difficult as we are considering emigrating, if a new Jewish state is proclaimed. But before we leave, we will, of course, come back a couple of times. We have to arrange for the transfer of Leah’s coffin to Copenhagen as well as find a lawyer to look into the legal aspects regarding the adoption.”

  On the way back to Sweden, Isaac was very still. On the ferry he finally spoke: “Father, she could still be there in the cupboard at the school.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ruben scratched his head. “People would have heard her. She probably got lost in the streets and either the Germans found her, or hopefully a nice Danish family took her in. She wouldn’t be the only one. We’ll put an advertisement in the papers about her. Many children are still displaced. You know quite a few people left their children behind to be brought up by Danish families.”

  Isaac was not convinced. But what could he do? If she had got out of the cupboard, he needn’t feel so bad. It would not be his fault. Either way was terrible. Imagine her living somewhere among strangers? Yet she knew their name – she could get in touch.

  Again his thoughts churned and churned around the same circuit.

  Ruben interrupted his thinking: “Isaac you have to stop feeling guilty. You were still a child. Mutti and I carry just as much blame. We are the ones who should have checked that Ursula was with us in the attic.”

  Hannah nodded, but did not say anything.

  

  Chapter 1

  Claire

  Fiskersund, Denmark

  Tuesday, 5. April 1983

  Something is pushing at me. A soft foreign voice keeps saying, “Open the cupboard.” I look towards a blue cupboard. Water presses me into the door. Everything is blue. It feels like tentacles are gripping me. I scream and kick. Again, I hear the insistent voice: “Go to the cupboard.” The tentacles twist around me. Air. I need air! I gulp in air. How strange. Where does the smell of coffee come from? The voice keeps on – insisting that I go to the cupboard. From far away Mum’s voice calls me. She is shaking me.

  “You’re late, Claire,” she says. “My God, look at your bedclothes. You must have had a big fight in your sleep.”

  I get dressed, run to school munching a piece of toast.

  When the bell rings, I squeeze myself in beside Ellen. My head is sti
ll spinning from the dream. Where is that cupboard I was supposed to go to?

  I shake my head to clear off the last vestiges of the dream and look around our new classroom. It smells of wood and paint. Mum would love this room with its new modern chairs and tables.

  The builders have really been busy during the Easter Holidays, while I have been in Bornholm. Before the renovations, this room had been the school’s attic, very airy with large windows and skylights. I look around. The walls are a bit bare, though, not yet full of all the paraphernalia we had in the old classroom. The only thing not white is a blue cupboard door. I stare at it. It must be a coincidence. It can’t have anything to do with my dream.

  As usual, my eyes slide to where Peter sits. I have to do it without Ellen noticing. She too fancies him rotten. I wonder who the new girl is sitting beside him. Lucky her! What beautiful long black plaits she has. I wish I had such long thick hair.

  “So...” Kirsten – who has been our teacher for the past six years – asks us, “..did you read about the Jews escaping from Denmark?”

  Thomas says, “It isn’t fair having to do homework in the holidays, Kirsten.”

  Most of the class nods in agreement.

  “It wasn’t really homework,” Kirsten says. “Just talking to your family and doing a bit of reading.”

  Most of the class knows, or have heard about, a relative or acquaintance who helped to ferry the Jews to Sweden forty years ago in 1943.

  Lissy raises her hand. “My grandfather helped the ones who escaped from our school,” she says.

  Kirsten smiles. I scream. I have to cross my arms tight to stop the nausea that makes my stomach feel like a turbulent sea: Peter has just put his book through the girl sitting next to him.

  “What is the matter with you, Claire? You’re shaking. Lissy, go with her to nurse Hansen.”

  Lissy’s eyes look daggers. She mutters something about: “Why me?” And “...crazy Claire.” As we pass Peter’s desk a hand grips mine. I gasp. “..now what? Come on!” Lissy scowls as she drags me – or rather, us – along. The girl follows with a tight grip on my other wrist. Her hand is papery dry.