The Woman from Bratislava (27 page)

THE NEXT DAY
it was as if nothing had happened, and for a brief moment I hoped it had all been just a dream. I woke up, as usual, at the sound of Dad’s step on the stairs. He always rose very early and went down to start baking the rolls and French loaves. But that morning after the shoot something was different. I could tell right away. He wasn’t whistling. Dad always whistled on his way down the stairs, just after I heard him pull the chain in the
bathroom
, which was right next to my room. I usually dropped off again after I heard his whistle, but that morning I could not go back to sleep. I lay in bed with my heart pounding so hard I was afraid it was about to leap right out of my chest. But I did not want to worry my mother, so I stayed in bed until she came in at seven, as usual, to get me up for school. I lay with my eyes shut, listening to her footsteps in the hall and opened them only when she said, as she normally did: ‘Morning, dear. Did you sleep well? Time to get up.’ Her voice was almost the same as always, but only almost. It had a cut-glass quality to it, a brittleness that had not been there before.

And it soon became clear to me, and to Fritz, that something was up. It may not have happened from one day to the next, but gradually the customers stopped coming to the shop and I noticed that when the driver loaded up the bread van for his daily rounds he was sliding fewer and fewer trays of French loaves, rye loaves, cakes and pastries onto the racks in the back. He did not whistle either, as he usually did, when he drove out of the yard. The word round about was that it was better to steer clear of Pedersen’s bakery. Not that anybody actually said that, of course. Danes are not given to saying things straight out. Not when it is a matter of
something unpleasant. But there was a lot of whispering in corners in the little community, on the farms, in tradesmen’s homes and labourers’ cottages. The implicit understanding was that decent people did not shop there. Because it appeared that he had fought on the wrong side. Well, he was not alone in that, but if the
attention
was on the baker then it was not being directed at anyone else. And if perhaps one had not realised until it was too late that the new Europe was not going to come to anything, after all, then there was even more reason to give Pedersen’s shop a wide berth and frequent one of the bakers in town instead – for the time being at least. Some customers did, however, stay loyal, mainly the well-to-do or folk who did not listen to, or were not interested in, rumours and possibly had not heard about the incident at the Count’s shooting party: people who lost no sleep over the past. Because no matter what anybody said, there was no better bread baked in all the area than that which Pedersen took from his oven. Let bygones be bygones. So said those who could not have cared less what folk said or thought about this, that or the other. But, as always, only the minority dared to go against the stream.

Things were not helped by the fact that the law was quick to put in an appearance. Not Karlsen, the local constable, but two police officers all the way from Odense. Although they wore plain clothes and were friendly and polite, they still helped to fan the rumours. I do not know what they and Dad spoke about, but they drove off again after an hour. Later Mum told me that they said they had had to come and have a word with him. Someone had reported him. But although his name was on file and he was known to have fought on the Eastern Front, he had committed no criminal act on Danish soil. His breach with society was a closed chapter. His
comrades
had been jailed for a couple of years, but had all long since been released. Those who had not been found guilty of breaking the law in Denmark. And as far as
that
went they had nothing on Dad. So the CID men had left, saying that it was a pretty old case and times had changed since ’45. And anyway, a lot of people had
been on the wrong side. As a child I did not understand much of all this. Grown-ups were always so mysterious.

Both my father and my mother grew thinner that winter. The November was exceptionally warm and the weather over
Christmas
was very odd indeed, with rain and temperatures in December rising as high as fifteen degrees celsius. Christmas was normally a busy time for us, but that year only one goose, four ducks and six loins of pork went into the big bakery oven. And of those one duck and one pork loin were for ourselves. Because Christmas would be celebrated, no matter what, Mum said. The shop had hardly any customers. Both the bakers had been sacked. Dad could manage everything on his own with just the apprentice, whose name was Kurt and who was thick as two short planks and had no clue about anything. Besides, Fritz had started helping out in the bakery, and I also lent a hand whenever I could, although it was more or less understood that it was more important for me to stick in at school. Of the two of us I was definitely the more academic and this my parents simply accepted. Mum and Dad did not say much to one another during the day, but in the evenings I would often slip out of bed and sit at the top of the stairs, listening to their serious voices down below in the living room. I could not make out what they said, but sometimes Mum would burst into tears and once I heard her shouting that they couldn’t go on like this, that the bills just kept on piling up and soon there would be no more deliveries of flour, sugar and butter.

My father had always had a kind welcome for the gentlemen of the road who came to the door, begging for a bit of stale bread, or maybe a beer or a dram, and sometimes even permission to bed down for the night in the flour store. It was as if he had always understood their longing to be on the move, their pain and their restlessness. The tramps had special signs that they carved into our front gate to tell other vagabonds that this was a hospitable house. A shifting succession of knife-grinders were also allowed to sharpen knives and scissors for a few coins, even though we
had a big hand-driven whetstone in the backyard. But now he had taken to hanging out behind the bakehouse in the more or less empty flour store, drinking beer and schnapps with these raggedy, bearded characters who stank of pee and tobacco. I would hear Mum going on at him about it, but it made no difference. All Dad wanted to do was to stand out back, bleary-eyed, chewing the fat with these dirty, smelly men. Fritz and I were scared of them, while baby brother Teddy, in all his usual innocent naivety, loved their cheery banter and the boiled sweets they always slipped him.

Soon there was trouble at school too. Not so much for me as for Fritz, who had to stand up for himself, me and Dad when Peter and some of the others called him a Nazi brat or said that Dad had been involved in killing freedom fighters and murdering
millions
of Jews and Russians. He regularly came home with a bloody nose or a black eye, but always refused to tell Mum what the other kids were saying. Although she knew, of course. Dad either said nothing or came out with stupid tough-guy remarks about boys having to be able to defend themselves, it was all part of growing up. He did not really seem to care that much, though, as long as he could hang around out back, drinking beer with his friends the tramps.

The teachers pretended not to notice, but I could tell that they felt more and more sorry for me. They knew it was not my fault. Besides which, I was a good student who learned my lessons and was never any trouble.

One day in history class we were reading about the occupation and the teacher, Mr Hansen, was waxing lyrical about Kaj Munk, the vicar and dramatist who was murdered by the Nazis. Munk was a good Christian Dane who had bravely spoken out against the occupying power. He had looked his enemies straight in the eye and had not hidden his face. He should stand as a shining example to us of how a healthy Christian spirit and a patriotic heart would carry us through the trials and tribulations of life straightbacked and undaunted. Mr Hansen spoke about the resistance movement
and how the Danish people had shown their worth by standing shoulder to shoulder against the German oppression throughout those five accursed years. The people of Denmark had fought for their freedom; that was why we put lit candles in our windows on May 4th, he said. It was a fine custom and one which we should pass on to our own children when we had them, to ensure that the memory of the fallen and the regaining of our liberty would never die, but testify always to the strength of the Danish nation and Danish values.

My parents put candles in the windows too. It was grotesque, really, but they did their best not to stand out from the crowd. From all of those Danish opportunists, every one of whom now had a resistance armband tucked away in a drawer as a treasured memento. Mr Hansen said that we, the rising generation, could learn from the fight which the Danes had put up.
Kæmp for alt, hvad du har kært. Dø om så det gælder
as we had sung so
beautifully
at assembly that morning: Fight for all that you hold dear. Die if die you must. Words which we should take with us when we went out into the world.

I did not stop to consider. Although normally I always did. I tried to keep everyone happy, to be the good girl who did not call too much attention to herself. I tried to be like all the others, and never betray the fact that my family had a secret; that I knew there was a secret, although my parents had never really said anything to me, not even now that I was older.

Nonetheless, I stupidly put up my hand and said:

‘But Mr Hansen, I don’t understand. If that’s true, then how come the Danish government called the resistance people
criminals
for so many years? And why were they arrested by the police?’

His face blanched, he grabbed me by the ear, slapped my face and hissed at me not to be so impertinent, asking the sort of
questions
that could only come from one quarter. I should think myself lucky that I lived in a free country where even the likes of me were allowed to go to school along with decent Danish children!

I felt my eyes fill with tears, but I refused to cry. My cheek stung from the slap, the first I had ever received at school. Fritz, like other boys, had had plenty, of course. But I did not cry, and I never told my parents what had happened in school that day. They had enough to worry about.

The cheery tinkle of the shop bell sounded less and less often to announce a customer. At the start of the new year, Dad dismissed Mrs Sørensen, who helped out in the shop on Sundays and often in the afternoons too. Mum could easily keep house, look after us kids and serve the bakery’s dwindling clientele. The only person who did not really seem to have grasped that our life had changed was little Teddy, who was as petted and pampered as ever. But then he was only five, and used to toddling about the house at Mum’s heels, sitting on a little chair in the corner of the shop, running over to Dad or playing with Lene from next door. All of which he continued to do. Several of my friends and Fritz’s chums stopped coming to see us or playing with us, having been forbidden to do so, but they did not act any differently towards Teddy. Even so, I think he must have sensed that something was wrong. He lost weight and was even more readily given to tears than before. He also became more clingy, hanging onto Mum’s apron like a little baby.

I eventually figured out that the villain of the piece was the grand visitor from Copenhagen. Referred to by my parents when they thought I was not listening simply as the Jew. As if in their minds, this term covered everything and everyone that was against them, everything they hated. But the idea that they were not only
anti-Zionist
– that being, after all, a sound political persuasion – but positively regarded the Jewish race as a plague on the earth – this I find very hard to accept. Like us they were, however, a product of the society in which they had grown up and in which they lived. A product of circumstances and the capitalistic chaos which
prevailed
(and prevails) in the world. They grew up seeing the world as an unjust, exploitative place, but unfortunately they did not
have genuine insight or the schooling necessary for them to make the right choices. Instead, choices were made for them by powers beyond their ken. Sadly, they were not sufficiently enlightened as to the class system which shaped their lives and their thoughts. And so they called everyone who hurt our family Jews, although the honoured guest from Copenhagen was every bit as Danish as we were.

I’m sorry, sister. I promised not to rant on about politics.

Slowly I pieced together the story and formed a picture of that lunch – one which, years later, my mother reluctantly confirmed.

The Jew had been ushered in to the laden lunch table and the gentlemen sitting around it, their faces rosy from the warmth and the schnapps; quite a few of them had already undone the top button of their trousers to accommodate all the plump herring, the excellent brawn, the liver pâté and salami, the warm roast pork, home-made rolled-lamb sausage, game terrines and the host of other rich delicacies which the Count served up at his famous shooting-party lunches. My father had been allocated a very prestigious place at the long table, only two seats down from the Count’s own place at the head of the table and next to the
managing
director of the engine works. The gentlemen were looking forward to the cheese, another little glass of schnapps, coffee and cigars before returning to the field, well fired-up. The keepers were
not
looking forward to that. The afternoon shoot was always a dicier affair than the morning shoot.

The Jew inclined his head to the assembled company as the Count introduced him and led him up to the empty place on his right-hand side. With an air of great self-importance he nodded affably to the other guests. His lateness was a mark of his high standing: he was a member of so many important committees. He viewed his work as a moral calling. It was his duty to see to it that traitors received their just deserts, in the press if nothing else, and that heroes were not forgotten. He was forced, much against his will, to associate with politicians, now back in power,
who endeavoured to make out that their collaboration with the Germans during the early years of the war had been purely
accidental
, or at any rate merely a pragmatic and very Danish ploy which had spared the country a great deal of misery.