The Apple Orchard

Part Five


Plant a victory garden. Our food is fighting. A garden will make your nations go further.

—National Garden Bureau poster, 1939–1945





BACKYARD GARDEN SALAD

In wartime, patriotic families cultivated “Victory Gardens” to promote self-sufficiency and help the war effort.





4 cups mixed greens

1/4 cup fresh sprigs of dill

1/4 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves

4 large basil leaves, rolled up and thinly sliced crosswise

1 large lemon, halved

1/4 cup fruity olive oil

pinch of salt

fresh ground black pepper to taste

1 cup toasted walnuts

3/4 cup crumbled feta cheese

1 cup fresh edible flowers; choose from

bachelor’s buttons, borage, calendulas, carnations,

herb flowers (basil, chives, rosemary, thyme), nasturtiums, violas,

including pansies and Johnny-jump-ups, stock





Toss salad greens and herbs in a large bowl. Squeeze lemon juice (without the seeds) over the greens and season with olive oil, salt and pepper. Toss again. Add walnuts and feta and toss well. Divide salad and pansies among four serving plates and serve.

(Source: Adapted from California Bountiful)





Nine



Gyldne Prins Park, Copenhagen 1941

Annelise Winther stretched her feet all the way up to heaven. The wind rushed through her hair as she pumped her legs, pulled back on the chains of the swing and lifted her feet even higher. Against the blue sky, she almost couldn’t tell how old and ill-fitting her scuffed brown shoes were. Mama said it was impossible to find new shoes in the city these days. She looked over at Mama on the swing next to her.

“Mama,” said Annelise, “you’re up in the sky like me!”

“I am,” her mother said. “It’s such a glorious day. Springtime is here at last. All the apple blossoms are out.”

Mama looked so pretty on the swing, her face turned up to the sun. Her long yellow hair had escaped its pins, and now it floated like a banner on the breeze. So did the light pink dress she wore. Its sleeves fluttered like the wings of an angel.

Pink was Mama’s favorite color because it matched her favorite piece of jewelry, a special necklace she almost always wore. The necklace had been a gift from Papa. He had brought it home from far-off St. Petersburg where he had been sent to do the King’s Business. These days, Papa was gone a lot, working all hours at the hospital. Sometimes he came home very late at night when Annelise was supposed to be asleep, and his face was smudged with candle soot. When she asked how he got all sooty by working at the hospital’s business office, he simply lifted her up into his arms and told her she asked too many questions. Then he tickled her until she screamed with laughter.

Mama turned to Annelise, and for no reason at all, the two of them smiled at one another. Annelise practically bubbled over with happiness. She smiled because she knew she had the prettiest, kindest mother in all of Copenhagen. In all the world.

“I’m touching heaven,” she called out, leaning her head way back to view the world upside down. “Are you touching heaven, too?”

“Absolutely. We have to stop soon, though.”

Annelise melted with disappointment. “Can’t we stay just a little longer?” Then she bit her lip, trying to be a big girl and not complain. It was Mama’s day off from volunteering at the hospital, and Annelise told herself to be grateful to have her for a whole day.

“You don’t want to stop?” Mama asked. “Not even for a picnic lunch?”

“Hurrah! A picnic!” Annelise’s disappointment popped like a rainbow-colored soap bubble. She dragged her feet to slow the swing, then jumped to the ground.

Mama had a way of making everything special, even an ordinary lunch. Due to something called Rationing, the bread was coarse and the cheese was made from curds, the way the farmers in the countryside served it.

“Your repast, Young Miss,” Mama said, placing the bread and cheese on a cloth napkin in front of her with a flourish.

“Why, thank you, Madam.” Annelise emulated her mother’s formal tone, though she couldn’t suppress a giggle.

“And we have ambrosia for dessert.”

“Ambrosia!” Annelise had no idea what that was, but even the word tasted delicious in her mouth.

It turned out to be spiced apples sweetened with honey, which they shared from a jar. “I made it from the last of the fall apples,” Mama said.

“Why were they the last?”

Mama’s pretty face darkened, like a cloud drifting over the sun. “Now the soldiers take them all. They took the honey right from the hives, too.”

Everything had changed since the German soldiers had come to Copenhagen, covering the city in a storm of leaflets dropped from their airplanes. To Annelise, it seemed they had always been here; she had even learned to understand their language. They were everywhere in their pressed shirts and shiny boots, all over the city, marching and bossing people about.

“Never mind that,” Mama said suddenly. “Let’s make sure this day is special.”

“Why?” asked Annelise.

“Because every day should be special.”

“Is that a new rule?” There were lots since the soldiers had come.

“Not a rule, but a reminder. We must live this day. We’ll never get to live it again.”

They basked in the sweet-scented breeze, and felt the sunshine warming their bare heads. Petals drifted from the gnarled apple and cherry trees, creating a pretty storm, like confetti. They lay together in the grass, watching a beetle trundling through the blades, its clumsy movements reminiscent of the soldiers’ giant transport trucks. Birdsong filled the air, horse buses clopped through the street, and somewhere along the city docks, a ship’s whistle blew. When it was time to go home, they packed everything into the basket and walked together, their clasped hands swinging between them. Annelise loved these perfect days with her mother, when the air was warm and the tulips and daffodils were coming up.

At the end of their block, a canvas-sided truck was parked, blocking the roadway. “What are those soldiers doing?” Annelise asked.

“Hush.” Mama’s voice was sharp, and she gripped Annelise’s hand very hard as she headed across the street, her heels thumping on the cut stone surface of the roadway. “It’s nothing to do with us.”

Annelise had to run to keep up. They were nearly home, approaching the black wrought iron gate in front of the house when two soldiers seemed to appear out of nowhere, blocking the walkway. “Frau Winther?” one of the soldiers said. “You must come with us now.”

Mama dropped Annelise’s hand and stepped in front of her. The sleeves of her dress fluttered, and she looked larger and somehow braver. Annelise was so proud of her pretty angel mother.

One of the men grabbed Mama, tearing the pretty spring dress. Annelise screamed and rushed forward. “Mama!” she yelled again and again. She kicked one of them in the shin, her scuffed shoe connecting with a shiny brown boot. A big hand swept downward and cuffed her on the ear, so hard that tears sprang to her eyes, and her ear stung and her head rang.

Mama tried to get away, but now two of them were holding her. They had hard eyes and fleshy lips twisted by meanness.

Annelise rushed forward again, but Mama shook her head very hard. “Annelise, get away. Run! Run and hide!”

“I want to stay with you,” Annelise wailed.

The soldiers pulled her mother toward the truck with canvas sides.

“Get the girl, too,” said one of the men.

“What for? She’s harmless.”

“Now, perhaps. But remember, nits make lice.”

“Run!” Mama screamed again. “Annelise, do as you’re told!”

A large, callused hand swiped out to snatch her. Annelise ducked to avoid it. And then she ran.

Boots drummed on the sidewalk. Sobbing, Annelise ran harder. There were more soldiers coming out of the house, swarming over the place and carrying things out.

Annelise kept going, though she couldn’t see due to the tears in her eyes. She could hardly breathe past the sobs clogging her throat. Diving through a gap in a hedge and back into the park, she stumbled and fell, scraping her knees on the pathway and scuffing the heels of her hands into the gravel.

She picked herself up. More footsteps pounded on the pathway. She lurched forward, sped around the corner, ran some more. Help. She needed help. Wild fright muddled her thoughts.

“Help,” she wheezed as she ran. “Please help.”

A shadow fell over her. Strong hands gripped her arms. She fought with all she had, kicking and scratching, making sounds she didn’t know she had inside her.

“Easy, easy, easy, little one,” said a voice in Danish.

She stopped fighting long enough to look at her captor. He wore cheap civilian clothes, his reddish-blond hair like a halo around his head, sticking out from a flat cap of boiled wool. A thick red scar spread from his jaw down to his neck. He was really just a boy, with a bit of duck fuzz in place of a beard.

“You’re the Winther girl?” the boy asked.

She didn’t answer. He was a stranger. “Who are you?”

“A friend. Call me Magnus.”

“They took my mama away. And they tried to catch me, but Mama told me to run for my life. Maybe my papa will come...” she said in a shaky voice.

“I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

She felt sick to her stomach, because in some small, horror-stricken corner of her mind, she understood that her father would not come. “The brownshirts took him, too.”

The boy looked her over. Annelise read something in his silence. I’m sorry.

“You’re going to have to stay quiet and trust me,” he said. “It’s scary, I know.” He held out his hand.

She couldn’t think. The day was still bright. A family of swans paddled by, three gray-fuzzed chicks behind a majestic white bird. Annelise didn’t know what else to do, so she put her hand in the boy’s and let him tow her along. This pale-haired, scar-faced stranger convinced her to come with him, even though she had no notion of what he might do to her. After seeing her beautiful angel mother dragged away by the brownshirts, she realized nothing worse could ever happen to her, today or ever. She told him about her grandmother up in Helsingør, and he said he’d take her there. Back when times were normal, Annelise and her parents took their motorcar or the local train or ferry up the coast to Grandma’s. Magnus said it was safer to go by boat.

Before long, they came to the city docks. There, they faded into the shadows and waited. The boy kept hold of her hand. His skin was rough and scabby. After a while, he brought her down to an open dory, the kind Papa sometimes took her rowing in on Sunday afternoons.

“Put this on,” said the boy, tossing her a canvas life vest. “Hurry, or—”

“Halt,” barked a voice. “What do you think you’re doing?” Two soldiers crowded in on them. Their uniforms were covered in badges and insignia, their belts shiny and bulging with holsters. Annelise cowered, remembering the men who had grabbed her mother.

“Taking my little sister boating this fine afternoon,” the boy called Magnus declared. “Last I heard, there was no prohibition against taking a child boating.” His tone was insolent but not quite defiant.

The taller soldier glared at them, first at the boy, then at Annelise. His eyes felt like daggers. Annelise fought the urge to run. She thought of her brave mother and stared right back.

“Off we go, then,” said Magnus, grasping her under the armpits. In one powerful movement, he swung her up and over the gunwale of the boat. Just for a second, her feet were framed against the sky-blue background, as though stretching up to heaven.