The Apple Orchard

Part Seven


Proclamation! To the Danish Soldiers and the People of Denmark!... [I]t is to be expected that the...Danish people show good will and not demonstrate any passive or active resistance against the German army. It would be futile and it would be stopped by any means necessary...The people are encouraged to continue their daily work and to ensure peace and order! For the security of the country against British assaults, control will accede to the German army and navy.

—Excerpt from a leaflet dropped from a German aircraft bomber, 9 April 1940. The text, in poorly translated Danish and Norwegian, is believed to have been written by Adolf Hitler.





JULEKAKE

Julekake means Yule Cake or Christmas Cake. Every Scandinavian family has their favorite version, usually baked by Mor Mor (Grandmother), who is always present, even if she’s passed on. This cake should never be prepared alone. Stand beside someone you love as you cut the citron into chunks and blend it with the flour, cardamom, fruits, butter, eggs, yeast and sugar. The scent of cardamom will fill you with nostalgia as the aroma of baking fills the house.

Moist and tender, topped with gjetost (Scandinavian goat cheese) and a pat of butter, this is the holiday treat we wait all year for.

Turn on the oven for 10 minutes at 150 degrees F, then shut it off but keep the door closed. This is where you’ll set the dough to rise.

Use a big wide mixing bowl to blend together:





5 cups white flour

1 tablespoon cardamom

2 cups candied fruit and citron

11/2 cups raisins





In a pan, blend:





2 cups milk, scalded (can be done on the stove or in the microwave)

1 cup sugar, dissolved in the scalded milk

1 cup butter, melted in the scalded milk





Cool to lukewarm. Combine a little of the milk with:





1 packet active dry yeast





When dissolved, add it to the rest of the milk mixture. Then add everything to the flour mixture to make a soft dough. Add enough flour to create a pliable dough that doesn’t stick to the sides of the bowl. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead further.

Place in a buttered bowl and turn it over once, so the oiled side is up. Place a dish towel over the top, and set the bowl in the warm oven for a half hour to 45 minutes. Punch down and knead again. This time, separate the dough into two loaves or rounds. Cover with a dish towel again, and let it rise once more for a half hour to 45 minutes.

Once risen, bake in a 400 degree oven for 30-40 minutes. Place a piece of foil over the tops after about 25 minutes if it gets too dark.

Source: Adapted from Christmas Customs Around the World by Herbert H. Wernecke (1959)





Eleven



Copenhagen 1940

The camera flash left Magnus momentarily blinded, and a slight burn of sulfur lingered in the air. But he knew in the picture, he would be smiling from ear to ear, because magic was about to happen. It was the best time of year, a time of secrets and good things to eat and families gathering close—especially now.

Farfar squeezed his shoulder and gazed fondly down at Magnus. “There, it is official,” his grandfather said. “Our Christmas portrait is done, so the festivities can begin.”

“Assuming you didn’t break the camera,” said Uncle Sweet, working the crank on the side of the box. Uncle Sweet was not really Magnus’s uncle at all. They just gave out that story for the sake of appearances. In reality, Sweet was Jewish, and the Johansens were hiding him and his daughter, Eva, in plain sight. Their real name was Salomon, and they were in big trouble, thanks to Sweet’s wife.

The wife was extremely pretty and had huge breasts that made her look like a pinup girl so popular in American magazines. She liked fine wine and pretty things, and because he’d fallen on hard times, Sweet couldn’t give her much. Last year when she had caught the eye of the German marshal at an Oktoberfest dance, she had gone waltzing off with the soldier and never looked back at the family she’d left behind—the husband destroyed by her betrayal, and the adorable, bewildered little girl. The betrayal of Sweet’s wife was even more injurious, given the fact that she would embrace the very ones who wanted to eliminate her people from existence.

The Nazi death camps were rumors no more, but grim fact. The underground newspapers were full of eyewitness reports of people who had seen these places just over the border—Theresienstadt, Neuengamme, Bergen-Belsen, Sachsenhausen—where prisoners were forced to work and starve in the freezing cold and were summarily executed for the smallest infractions. When Magnus thought of Eva, he could not get his mind around the Nazis’ idea that her race of people were some kind of menace to humanity. All he saw was a little girl with nothing but goodness and hope in her heart, even in the face of the notion that her mother had abandoned the family and her father was a broken man.

“We can’t all be as pretty as you,” Papa said, coming into the room with a tray laden with mugs—hot malted cream with cardamom for Magnus and Eva, and apple cordial for the grown-ups.

“I’ll partake later,” said Uncle Sweet. “I’m going to take this down to the basement and develop the film to make some prints. They’ll have to be my gift to you this year since the damn Nazis have made it impossible to have a proper holiday in Copenhagen anymore.”

Magnus took a swallow of his malted cream and pretended he could taste real chocolate. The last time he had tasted chocolate was perhaps three years ago, but he had never forgotten the smooth flavor, as dark as night.

“Language, Sweet,” said Magnus’s mother, arriving with a plate full of homemade biscuits. She didn’t scold him too harshly about his talk these days. Magnus suspected this was because Mama shared Uncle Sweet’s opinion about the Nazis. Yet despite the shortages and rationing, she had managed to turn out the most delicious biscuits Magnus had ever tasted. They were redolent of butter, which Mrs. Gundersen up the hill traded for apples from the family orchard.

Uncle Sweet made a great show of fanning himself and swooning as he ate a biscuit. “Language,” he said, “is nothing but a bunch of words, and there are no words to express how wonderful this cookie is. I swear, if you were not already married, I would have you locked in a workroom like Rumpelstiltskin’s daughter, forced to bake for me all day.” He stole another biscuit from the platter and headed for the basement, lighting his way with an oil lamp. No one ever asked where his photographic chemicals came from—no one wanted to hold the answer like a piece of stolen fruit.

Mama and Papa went to the settee. Their glasses clinked, and they snuggled together, and the sight of them made Magnus feel warm inside. No matter what the Nazis did as they overran the city, they could not steal the one thing that mattered most—the love shared by a family. Tonight they were celebrating Lille Juleaften—Little Christmas Eve—which turned December twenty-third into a special day. They’d given the house a final cleaning, and everything was ready for the next few days of feasting.

“Let’s finish lighting the candles on the tree,” said Farfar. “You’re plenty old enough to handle that duty, eh?”

“I should say so.” Magnus took a long wooden match and touched it to one of the candles. There were just a dozen this year because of the shortages. It didn’t really matter, though. Thanks to the brown-shirted Nazis, Christmas had to be concealed from the world behind blackout curtains.

Although Magnus couldn’t say so to his grandfather, he had plenty of experience with lighting fires lately. But the less said about that, the better.

Sweet’s little daughter, Eva, came in, all dressed for bed. Fresh from her bath, Eva had that peculiar, scrubbed look that made everyone want to draw her close and protect her. When she saw the lighted tree, her eyes shone like twin stars, and she regarded Magnus as if he had personally invented the element of fire. Eva had never experienced Christmas before, but when Magnus had explained the concept, she was quick and eager to grasp it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, her eyes shining with wonder. “Farfar, isn’t it beautiful?”

“Not half as beautiful as you, my little flower.” Farfar swept her up in one strong arm and held her so she could inspect the ornaments on the tree. He had embraced the role of foster grandfather to the little girl. “See this pinwheel here?” he asked. “It’s made of celluloid and it belonged to my mother when she was your age.”

“What makes it go round and round?”

“The heat from the candle is just below it,” Magnus said importantly. “Heat creates energy, which makes it twirl around.”

She nodded thoughtfully, as if she understood. “And this one?” she asked, pointing to a little carved ornament. “You made it all by yourself, didn’t you, Magnus?”

“Indeed I did. Farfar let me use his tools.” Magnus was extremely good at carving things. He held the ornament so she could see it. “It’s got a secret inside.” He moved a hidden catch and the small box opened.

The little girl gasped with wonder. Inside the box was a tiny beeswax figure of a dog. “That’s clever, Magnus. Isn’t he clever, Farfar?”

“He certainly is.”

Magnus shut the box and hung it back on the tree. “You’d never know it’s hollow, right?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“What do you want from the nisse this year?” asked Farfar. Earlier, he had regaled Magnus and Eva with stories of the mythical elf. “Remember, that in one magical night, the nisse can grant wishes to boys and girls. Maybe you’ll wish for a baby doll, or a pair of skates?”

Eva turned somber. “My mama. That’s all in the world I want.”

Magnus could see Farfar’s smile stiffen at the edges. They were all keeping a secret from Eva. She was too young to handle the truth.

“The nisse can’t do that sort of magic,” Farfar said.

“What good is he, then?” The little girl’s chin trembled.

“That,” said Farfar, “is a very good question. I must stay up late tomorrow night and ask him.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Her eyes widened.

In spite of himself, Magnus shivered. The nisse was a friendly elf, but it would be strange to meet up with one.

But Eva was a child with a sunny spirit, full of hope. She seemed determined to be happy despite the fact that her mother had abandoned her and her father. When Magnus gave Eva the cup of warm malted cream, she accepted it with a smile that wrapped around his heart.

He looked around the room and felt awash with gratitude. This was the fine essence of life, these moments when a family was together doing the simplest of things. His mother and father went over to the table to drink their cordial and write Christmas greetings to their friends. Farfar showed Eva more ornaments on the tree, embellishing the stories behind them. Uncle Sweet worked in the darkroom, whistling as he brought images to life on his special paper. The recipe for happiness was just so simple, Magnus thought. Yet something about it seemed incredibly fragile, as though it might be shattered at any moment.

“Have I ever told you about the story behind this?” Farfar asked, turning away from the Christmas tree. It was as if he wanted to distract the little girl from dwelling on false promises and wishes that couldn’t possibly come true. He opened the curio cabinet against the wall and took out his proudest possession—a jeweled egg on an ornate stand.

Eva seemed happy to allow herself to be distracted. “It’s very pretty.”

“It’s one of my favorite things. Let’s have a look at it.”

Magnus was drawn to the fire, where Farfar and Eva sat. The large, colorful egg was one of Magnus’s favorite things, too, because it was so cleverly made. “It’s got a secret,” he said to Eva. “Can I show her, Farfar?”

“Of course. You know all its secrets.”

Magnus found the cabochon ruby clasp and pushed it in, causing the egg to open.

Eva clapped her hands. “There’s something inside!” She leaned forward to inspect. “It’s an angel. A pretty girl angel.”

Carved of alabaster and embellished with real gold, the figure resembled St. Lucia, with a crown of leaves and a candle held between her hands.

“That’s right,” said Farfar. “She even has a name—Maria. The jeweler created this egg to commemorate her birth. The little girl’s father gave it to me long ago as a token of gratitude.”

“Farfar saved the girl’s life,” Magnus said, beaming with pride at his grandfather. “He’s the best doctor there is.”

“Was the girl sick?” Eva asked.

“Very sick,” said Farfar. “But she was brave and determined to get better. Her parents were so grateful that they gave me the Angel egg and a letter, expressing their thanks.”

“Her father was an important man,” Magnus said. “A rich man.”

“But he knew what all my patients discover, that all the riches in the world are worthless without one’s health.”

“Whatever happened to the little girl?” Eva touched her finger to the angel’s, which was made of gold and abalone.

“She grew to be a lovely young lady, and she married a prince, and they moved to a far-off land where it was safe for them to live,” said Farfar.

Eva twirled around the room, the angel cradled in her hand. “Does that mean she’s a real actual princess now?”

“I suppose it does, at that,” said Farfar. “Although she lives in exile.”

“Where is exile?”

“It’s not a place. Exile is when you don’t get to live in your homeland anymore, because it’s too dangerous.”

“Like Daddy and me,” said Eva, thus proving she probably understood more about the situation than they realized.

“Magnus, can you mind the fire?” his mother asked. “It’s gotten cold in here.”

He turned back the carpet runner by the Christmas tree to reveal the coal bin built into the floor. It was a clever innovation by him and his father. The coal was loaded into a drawer from the outside, and could be accessed from within, thus saving a trip out into the weather. Taking care with the scuttle, he added coal to the fire.

Just then a pounding rattled the door. “Gestapo,” came a harsh voice. “Open up.”

Magnus’s father jumped up and hurried to the door. At the same time, his mother took Eva by the hand and headed upstairs, motioning for Magnus to follow. He didn’t. Some impulse made him lower the jeweled egg into the coal bin before shutting the trapdoor and flipping the carpet back in place.

His heart hammered like a bird beating its wings against the bars of the cage, and he could scarcely catch his breath. He felt ill with fear, yet at the same time, the heated rush of blood through his veins made him feel exhilarated, every cell in his body pulsing with life. He composed himself as he went to stand beside his father and grandfather.

“Good evening,” said Father. His face was as still and expressionless as a funeral mask. The German soldier stepped forward, filled with self-importance. He was shadowed from behind by two others. Something Magnus had noticed about the Germans was that they never went about on their own. They always traveled in groups. These three wore the winter uniforms of brown and buff-colored wool, hats flecked with snowflakes and tall boots polished so brightly that they reflected the candlelight from the Christmas tree. The leader of the three wore a long belted overcoat and black gloves. They all had holstered weapons, wearing them as casually as a watch on a fob.

“Which one of you is Dr. Johansen?” asked the leader.

“That would be me,” Farfar said. “What do you want?”

“You will come with us,” the soldier ordered.

“Not without an explanation.” Farfar spoke mildly, yet there was a thread of defiance in his voice.

The German’s clean-shaven jaw tightened visibly. “It is not a request, but an order. Your medical services are required.”

“In what capacity?”

“Major Fuchs, the Hauptsturmführer, has taken ill. I will not waste precious time negotiating with you, explaining the situation. Get your coat and come with me.”

“I have other patients and other duties to attend to,” Farfar said. “If you would kindly give me the address, I will come around when—”

“You will do as you are told,” the German insisted. “Now. Without delay. As a man of healing, you can do no less.”

The other soldiers took a step closer. Magnus could see them scanning the room, their eyes lighting on the glasses of cordial on the desk, the dancing fire, the curio cabinet with its door left open. He couldn’t tell what they were looking for. He tried to view it from their perspective. It looked like the home of an ordinary Danish family. He’d heard rumors, though, of the invaders helping themselves to people’s artwork and jewelry, or taking it away to the local armory for safekeeping.

The Germans pretended their invasion was meant to safeguard the Danes. However, everyone knew the people of Copenhagen had been perfectly safe before that April morning when they’d woken up to the news that their country had been occupied.

Magnus studied the faces of the soldiers in their parlor. He wondered what was going on behind those darting, narrowed eyes. Did it feel awkward to them, coming into people’s private homes, checking out their things?

“Pardon me,” said Magnus’s father, “but if the officer is so gravely ill, shouldn’t he be taken to the hospital?”

“Dr. Johansen, you will come with us,” said the Gestapo officer.

Farfar cleared his throat. “Let me get my kit and my coat,” he said. “I will see what I can do.”

Later, Magnus realized he should have recognized the signs that this was the last he would see of his grandfather. After he donned his good wool overcoat, Father helped him on with his muffler, slinging it around his neck and holding him close for a few seconds, whispering something and then kissing him. Farfar’s eyes were bright behind his spectacles as he bent down and kissed Magnus, whispering, “You be as good and brave as I know you can be.”

Then Farfar put on his hat with the earflaps, and his gloves, picked up his bag and followed the soldiers out into the night.

* * *

Magnus never gave up hoping to see his grandfather again. He later heard that the Hauptsturmführer recovered, declaring that he owed his survival to the brilliant Danish physician. However, unlike other grateful patients, he had given Dr. Johansen no reward, but instead pressed him into service to the German elite officers.

The Johansen family didn’t have to wonder how the Germans had located a skilled doctor to cater to their needs. The Nazis intruded into everyone’s lives, stripping away all their privacy, delving into their secrets. Magnus heard his parents speaking of it in low whispers, late into the night.

Though they could not arouse suspicion by appearing to flee, it was decided that Sweet would take Eva up to the family orchards to the north of the city, near a village called Helsingør, on the island of Zealand in the Øresund Strait. There was a small country house that was used in the summer, and some very basic cottages where the pickers stayed during the harvest.

After Farfar was taken and Uncle Sweet and Eva had fled, Christmas arrived, a subdued holiday with just Magnus and his parents. Friends came around in the afternoon and kind words were exchanged, but nothing was the same. Everyone in Copenhagen now understood that nothing would ever be the same.

Typically, the Christmas tree was left up until Epiphany, just after the new year. But the tree started dropping its needles on Christmas Day, and turned as dry as tinder. Magnus’s mother announced that they would take it down before Epiphany this year. The end of Christmas was always a melancholy time, and far more so this year, without Farfar to remind everyone that the new year was here, bringing fresh opportunities each day.

Boxing Day was a miserable affair. It never even got light enough to extinguish the lamps. An icy rain hissed over the city, battering at the snow until the streets and sidewalks were covered in dirty pockmarks. Magnus’s father went to the town council to file an objection that Farfar had been illegally pressed into service to the Nazis. Proper Danes did not take kindly to those they perceived as collaborators.

A few days later, Father came home wearing a scowl of frustrated fury, declaring that he had accomplished nothing. Over dinner that night, he and Magnus’s mother barely spoke, though Mother said something Magnus would always remember—“It’s as if they have sucked every bit of happiness out of the city.”

“If we allow them to do that,” said Magnus’s father, “then they have already won.”

She pushed aside her plate of eggs and rye bread. “Perhaps it has already happened. I don’t even want to be here anymore. I wish we lived someplace else.”

He patted her hand. “Where, then, my love? We’re born and raised here. I grew up in this very house. Where else would we go?”

“America,” Magnus piped up. “It’s the place where everyone goes to make a new start.”

“That’s what some folks say.” His father took a sip of mulled apple cider. “However, others say it’s a haven for outlaws and criminals and misfits who can’t make a go of life in their own homeland.”

“The Nazis make me wish I could be an outlaw,” Magnus declared. “In fact, maybe I’ll become one.” He thought about the fires he and his friends “accidentally” set around the German supply ships in port, when the soldiers weren’t looking.

“You mustn’t talk like that. One day, this will all be over, and we’ll get our lives back.” His mother sighed, then got up to clear the table. “I miss chocolate.”

Father stood and kissed her cheek. “We all miss chocolate, love.” He turned to Magnus. “Let’s have a proper wood fire in the fireplace tonight, shall we? Not just coal in the stove.”

“Yes,” said Mother. “It’ll brighten up the house as we take down the Christmas tree.”

Magnus jumped up. “I’ll bring in the wood.”

“Bundle up, and don’t forget to cover your ears.”

He dressed for the weather, which had turned bitterly cold after the rains at Christmas. Now everything was silvered with a coating of ice, making it appear otherworldly, like a painting in a museum.

In the center of the garden was his mother’s favorite piece—a tiered birdbath, which in the springtime played host to blackcaps and warblers. Since the Germans had arrived unannounced before Christmas, the birdbath served another purpose. Mother had hidden her good jewelry in the hollow section under the top tier. People in the city were taking precautions. The German marshal claimed his men were models of integrity. The Danes knew such grand pronouncements didn’t stop the soldiers from having sticky fingers.

Ice had transformed the humble stone birdbath into a precious vessel; it resembled a pair of silver bowls one might find in a church.

The blackout curtain at the back door had been left up to give him some light for working. Through the glass he saw his mother crank up the Victrola; then he heard her favorite record start to play. Father swept her up into a dance hold, and they swayed together to the rhythm. In that moment they were a refuge for each other, holding the world at bay, if only for a short time. Magnus imagined they let themselves stop worrying about Farfar, and the shortages, and the soldiers who overran the city.

He turned to the wood shed and took up the maul, finding a refuge of his own in the violent labor of splitting a dry log into kindling.

Soon the cold gave way to the heat of exertion, and he welcomed the fire in his muscles. There was something immensely satisfying in breaking apart a thick log, wrenching it open to expose the clean-smelling heart of the wood.

From the corner of his eye, something in the house caught his attention. He paused in his work and looked up to see a different kind of movement through the glass of the door.

Soldiers.

The sweat generated by Magnus’s labor suddenly turned as cold as the ice that coated the garden. His grip on the maul tightened convulsively as his stomach clenched in fear.

He saw three uniformed men moving menacingly toward his parents while the music played on. His first instinct was to protect, to rush inside with the sharp maul and split the Germans’ heads open like fat blocks of wood.

Despite his rage and fear, he held the impulse in check. He was no match for three burly soldiers with their sidearms and bayonets.

It was terrible to watch. They were no better than thieves, rifling through drawers and cupboards while forcing Magnus’s parents to stand against the wall, helpless and white-faced with terror.

He felt sick, his stomach churning, his heart pounding, his breath scraping in his chest. He shook like a palsied old man. He couldn’t think. He had to think. If he rushed inside to be with his parents, they would trap him, as well.

If he went for help—there was no one to go to for help. The city police were powerless and under orders to obey the Germans. The thieves. Their harsh voices rumbled from the house. Magnus looked around wildly, wondering if he should sneak next door to the Hansens’.

No. That could expose another family to danger. He would not be responsible for that.

They were questioning his parents now, their voices sharp. Magnus was proud to hear his father’s even tone. He didn’t panic or plead. Magnus pressed himself into the shadows of the garden, hiding by the stacked wood. If the soldiers came outside, would they notice the tracks in the snow? Would they find the cache of valuables in the birdbath?

As the terror swirled through his head, the back door opened. The blinding glare of a handheld electric torch swept across the area. And somewhere inside himself, Magnus found a core of steel. He simply stopped breathing, so his frozen breath wouldn’t give him away. He stopped trembling through sheer force of will and stayed as still as a statue.

The beam from the torch intruded like a nosy neighbor, pausing on the snow-clad apple trees, the acacia bushes, his mother’s garden bench. Magnus continued to hold his breath, to hold himself motionless. The only sign that he was alive, and human, and just a scared kid was the one reaction he couldn’t control, something that would haunt him with humiliation until the end of time—he pissed himself. He couldn’t help it, didn’t even know it was happening until it was too late, and by then he was powerless to stop.

A storm trooper came out to the edge of the back porch, his heavy boots thumping on the planks. The beam swung again, seeming to snag on the birdbath. Then it moved on, passing over Magnus’s hiding place. He wondered if the German would see that someone had been splitting wood for a fire.

The soldier coughed, hawked up phlegm and spat loudly, then went back inside. Magnus let out his breath and scooped in lungfuls of fresh, cold air. A sound he couldn’t identify came from inside, a clattering and scraping. He could no longer hear his parents’ voices. Then everything went quiet, but a smell of burning filled the air.

He started to tremble again. He thought he might throw up but didn’t let himself. He counted to ten, then concluded that the soldiers had left. Moving stealthily, he went to the door and peered inside. He could see no one, but the downstairs was filled with smoke.

Magnus broke out of his state of terror and burst inside, into the house, racing from room to room while calling for his parents. There was no answer, and they were nowhere to be found. They’d been wrenched away like Farfar.

The Christmas tree lay on its side, turned into a torch by the fallen candles, its treasures and ornaments scattered everywhere. He ripped off his overcoat and beat out the flames, coughing from the pine-scented fumes. A large hole had been burned in the carpet, and the floor itself was charred. The walls and ceilings were streaked with black, the family pictures that hung there obscured by soot.

Once assured that the fire was out, he made a more thorough search of the rooms, calling to his mother and father, all the while gulping with sobs of hopelessness. The house had been ransacked; he could see that the liquor cupboard and the pantry had been emptied by the greedy soldiers. Along with the reek of burning pitch, a feeling of violation hung in the air. This was no longer a home. It was not a safe haven. The German intruders had turned it into a place of peril.

They had taken more than just liquor and valuables; they’d taken the things that made the house a home—the sense of family, of love, of security. What they probably did not realize was that they had left something behind—a very scared, very angry boy.