eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780752464374 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | The History Press |
| Publication date: | 07/31/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 721 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
Read an Excerpt
Moonlight over Denmark
By J.H. Schryer
The History Press
Copyright © 2011 J.H. SchryerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7524-6437-4
CHAPTER 1
Copenhagen, 29 August 1943
Lilian Sørensen hurried out of the Danish Foreign Office just as the clock in the nearby square struck 1 p.m. She walked briskly through the side streets, then turned into Radhauspladsen. It was unusually crowded with SS officers and stormtroopers. Patrols in the city had unexpectedly increased over the last two hours, their vehicles passing regularly outside her office window.
In reality, daily life hadn't changed much under the Nazis. Denmark was permitted self-government, but under the constant watch of the occupying power. Lilian had heard rumours of terrible atrocities elsewhere in Europe but no such things had happened in Denmark. In the distance she could hear the faint sound of military band music, the regular beat of drums. Something wasn't right. The Danish people were becoming increasingly resentful of Nazi-occupation like a dam waiting to burst. Glancing back, it was then that she noticed for the first time the swastika flag flying from the mast on the roof of the Radhaus. She could have sworn it wasn't there earlier that morning. She crossed the square into Frederiksberg.
'Lilian!' she recognised the voice behind and turned.
'Tom.' The tall stocky lad, a year older than her at nineteen, was coming towards her. His square-set jaw, unruly blonde hair and blue eyes made him somewhat attractive in a manly kind of way. His rugged features and tanned skin attested to a life lived outdoors. She already gathered that he worked on his father's farm just outside Copenhagen, but twice a week he came into the capital to study.
'I thought we were having lunch yesterday.' He frowned. 'Where were you, Lily?'
She knew he was sweet on her but had given no indication of returning any affection. He looked at her intently. Her soft, auburn, Shirley Temple curls fell in twists to her shoulders; her hazel eyes had a depth that swallowed his heart. He fantasised about sweeping her up in his arms like his hero Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. He wanted to kiss her pouted lips. He didn't. Too shy to make the first intimate move without being sure whether or not she would reject him. And here, he thought, glancing around, they would have a very public audience.
'I'm really sorry about yesterday, Tom. I had some urgent work at the office. I am sorry, really I am, for letting you down.'
'How about today then? Come out with me today ... please.'
'I planned to take my sandwiches back to the office. I'd love to have lunch with you Tom, but ...' She lowered her eyes; her long lashes curled at the end giving her face softness. She couldn't disappoint him again. She relented: 'Alright then, but only for half an hour. I can't take the full hour.' She slipped her arm through his and they walked in the direction of Frederiksholms Canal. They came to a tiny café overlooking the canal. Tom held the door open for her and motioned to the corner table in an alcove. Inside was deserted except for a woman and her child sitting at the window table.
'Let me get it today Lily.'
'Thank you, Tom. That's very sweet of you but not necessary.'
'I insist. What will you have?'
'An open cheese sandwich please.'
Tom ordered their food then continued: 'I'm glad we've got this time together.' She watched him quizzically, unsure of his change of mood. He seemed deeply serious as he placed his hand on her arm. He moved his head closer to hers, breathing in her faint lilac fragrance. How intoxicating and sensual he found her. He tried to concentrate. 'Things are getting dangerous in Denmark. It's not safe for you. You should leave.' All the time his eyes scanned the café to ensure no one else had come in or could overhear them.
'Leave? Good heavens, Tom, whatever do you mean?' She flicked her curls from her face in a gesture of nervousness.
'You must have heard the news this morning? The Nazis have declared a state of emergency. The government has resigned and the country is under complete Nazi control.'
'Yeah, I heard it. We were briefed in the office. From eight tonight a curfew will be enforced on the streets.'
'There'll be more than that in due course. There's bad news, Lily. Rumour has it the Nazis are going to round up the Jews.'
'No, Tom. Surely not? They've been left alone all these years.'
At that moment he didn't feel confident to tell her that he knew she was Jewish. It might drive a wedge between them and shatter her openness towards him. Even worse, he might lose her. But he would give his life for her. The Nazis wouldn't lay a finger on her, not whilst he had breath in him. Neither could he tell her that his call-up papers for the Danish military police had arrived that morning. Numbers were being doubled on the orders of General Werner Best, Hitler's main confidant in Denmark. Lilian sat silently opposite him. She had barely touched her sandwich. They chatted some more, then Lilian glanced at her watch.
'I must be going, Tom.'
'Yes, sure. Let me escort you back.'
'Thank you, Tom. That's very sweet of you.' She stood up.
'And please don't worry,' he muttered, not wanting to spoil their time together. 'I may be totally wrong about the Nazis.'
They walked back into Radhauspladsen. Neither needed reminding of the serious turn of events. Two platoons of stormtroopers goose-stepped across the main square. Behind them a motorbike patrol with sidecar followed. Its engine revved periodically; Nazi flag with black swastika in a white circle on crimson red draped across the spare wheel at the back. Propaganda posters with images of Hitler and the swastika now appeared on billboards and in café windows. Tom and Lilian walked on in silence. On the steps outside the Foreign Office, Tom momentarily caught her hand. 'Take care Lily.'
'I will see you again soon, won't I Tom? You worry me with your seriousness.'
'Yes. Yes, of course. I'll be in touch. I promise.' He waited for her to disappear inside, watching her through the glass doors as she dashed down the corridor towards her office. Deflated at having to part from her, he turned and walked back to college for his afternoon lectures.
* * *
Later that same evening Hanns woke to the sound of movement below. This was his fifth location in as many days. Now he was back in the same barn where he had been hidden on his first night. In the three weeks since he had been dropped into Denmark he had remained in hiding. Frustration took its toll, only just staved off by promises from Anders that his time was coming soon. Straining to peer through the thin slit between the floorboards of the loft space, Hanns' eyes adjusted in seconds to make out the silhouette of a single German officer in a heavy overcoat. From the courtyard outside came short, quick footsteps and scuffles. The clip of boots echoed. They were back on his trail. In the semi-darkness inside the barn, Hanns moved silently behind the tallest stack of bales, stood upright, flattening his body tight against the wall. His heart thumped in his chest. Bloody hell, Anders shouldn't have brought him back to the same place. It was obvious they would look here. The farmhouse and barn were only a few miles from Gjorslev Herregarden.
'Alle reinkommen!' the brisk order came in a clipped Prussian accent. 'Find them!'
It was close, damn close. The next few minutes felt like hours as Hanns waited, hand on pistol in his right pocket. He had two shots. If it came to it, it wouldn't be enough. There were at least half a dozen stormtroopers below. He was desperate to kill. Repay their violence. There was no middle ground, no compromise. They were all Nazis – tarred with the same brutal brush. From the few exchanges he had had with Anders, he gathered the Danes were growing resentful of Nazi occupation, their autonomy eroded bit by bit. There was a tension under the surface of this polite co-operative nation.
Suddenly a single beam of light shone across, up and down the far wall of the barn, scanning over his position. He had taken the precaution of removing the ladder from the loft space. Frozen still against the cold stone wall, he concealed his breath. Bastards. They wouldn't get him. The sound of a vehicle drawing up outside was accompanied by shouts. The beam of the torch hesitated, slowly searching back over his space.
'Up there, sir.' The voice of a young SA officer echoed around the barn.
'Here, take that Müller!' The Commander pointed to a discarded ladder at the far side of the barn. Hanns cursed himself that he'd failed to spot the second ladder. 'If they're up there, they can't go far.'
'It's a bit rickety, sir. Doesn't look as if it could hold anyone's weight.'
'Is that a contravention of orders, Müller? You've grown fat and lazy. Perhaps a stint on the Russian front?' The young officer clicked his heels in obedience, fetched the ladder and propped it against the floor of the loft. Halfway up it creaked under his weight, causing him to stop momentarily.
'Carry on! Get on with it! We don't have time to mess about!' The commanding officer stood right below. Climbing to the penultimate rung of the ladder, Müller scanned everything in his line of vision, then prodded a couple of bales with his bayonet. 'Nothing, sir. No one can hide up here. It's thick bales to the wall, sir.' Hanns was grateful to the incompetent fool.
'Let's go. We've wasted enough time here,' the Commander snapped. 'Next stop!'
The men below saluted and in unison chorused 'Heil Hitler', then retreated. The soldiers and single vehicle moved out of the farmyard, leaving Hanns in total silence. He could breathe again, but for how long?
* * *
In London's Grand Central Hotel in Marylebone Road, nineteen-year-old Günter Herz eyed the sergeant major bristling in his crisp uniform, hair Brylcreemed to a sharp centred parting. With moustache protruding like two propeller blades, he sat stock still behind his desk, his huge chest heaving with each intake of breath. The sergeant major began shuffling the papers in front of him. This drab office in a back bedroom wasn't quite what Günter was expecting for his interview. Standing in front of him, Günter couldn't help thinking the sergeant major had probably seen more action in one week than Günter had in his entire life. He certainly looked old enough to have served in the Great War.
What the hell did he know about the frustrations of life in an army labour unit? Günter was in 87 Company of the British army's Royal Pioneer Corps digging day-in, day-out, endless trenches 4ft by 4ft then filling them with concrete. He was sick of the smell of the stuff. It was now August 1943 and he hadn't seen a single gun in three years, let alone trained in how to use one. The pick and shovel on his cap badge was not something Günter was proud of. He had wanted to join the RAF and had sent off application after application, but to no avail. It was the same story each time – German and Austrian refugees, all enemy aliens, could not be accepted as pilots in the very traditional Royal Air Force. There was only one exception that he knew about – his best friend Rudi Steinberg was caught flirting with the commanding officer's daughter on Ilfracombe seafront when he should have been doing drill with the others. His transfer application was accepted immediately and now he was serving as the only German fighter pilot in the RAF. There were times when Günter missed him, still stuck in the Pioneer Corps.
There was some consolation in the fact that his company was made up of Germany and Austria's finest brains. It made life outside army training more interesting. A mini-university had been formed by the Continentals on their own initiative. His contemporaries were all intellectuals: scientists, doctors, engineers, philosophers, dentists, lawyers and artists. Over a third of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra was serving in various Pioneer companies of the British army, including his. All great minds with talent. What a waste. They worked like Trojans, determined to thank the country that had given them refuge from Nazi tyranny. But what Günter really wanted to do was fight back. This was his war.
'Stand smart, boy,' the sergeant major's voice cut through his thoughts. 'So you want to leave the Pioneer Corps?' Günter noticed how his heavy hands were now folded on the file in front of him, his pen redundant at the side.
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you know why you are here today?'
'Yes, sir. The gentleman that arrived at our barracks spoke to some of us. He hinted at the possibility of doing something special in the forces.'
'And are you prepared to serve in civilian clothes, somewhere in enemy territory?'
'Would I receive protection if I did?'
The sergeant major raised a monocle to his right eye and peered at him, 'I'm the one asking the questions Private Herz, but – no, you wouldn't.'
'In that case sir, the answer is no.'
'Are you proud of the King's uniform?'
'Yes sir, but ...' Günter felt it was all going wrong. He was desperate to get out of the Pioneer Corps. Mixing concrete for two years was not his idea of a real war.
'It's always "yes sir but" with you Continentals.' He paused, eyed him much as an owl might watch its prey. 'I thought you wanted to do something proper for this war, Private Herz.'
'Yes sir, I do, but I will only serve in uniform.'
'Why would you want to do that? And what if it means unorthodox training?'
Günter tried to salvage the situation, 'Revenge, sir. I want to kill the bastards that took away my birthright and home. My family's left behind in Vienna. There is nothing more damaging to one's mind, sir, than losing your country.'
The sergeant major's expressionless face made it difficult to tell if that was the answer he was looking for. 'So you're a bit of a philosopher. There's no room for that in the army, Private Herz, not if you want to be a good soldier. You have your freedom. That should be enough.' He muttered something which Günter didn't hear, then waved his hand in dismissal. 'Thank you Private Herz. That's all.' Günter didn't move.
'But sir ...' Günter felt he had nothing to lose by adding to his case.
'No, Private Herz. There is nothing more to say. Back to your unit. Dismissed.'
In the corridor outside Günter felt devastated. He had blown the one opportunity to do something different in the war. He shrugged his shoulders and walked down the labyrinth of corridors to the reception area to retrieve his haversack.
* * *
Arriving back at Pembroke Dock in South Wales, Günter flashed his pass at the guard standing at the iron gate to the Defensible Barracks. The guard smirked, 'Friend or foe?' His glistening steel bayonet fixed to his rifle pointed at Günter's stomach. Günter glared down the black barrel. Like all his mates, he was used to the question. The guard asked all of them the same question every time they returned to the barracks. It was his idea of a joke but now it was wearing thin.
'Enemy alien,' he replied. At the outbreak of war, all refugees like him had been classified as 'enemy aliens' by the British government. In reality it hadn't meant much – except a few restrictions on travel, but the most drastic measure was their internment on the Isle of Man or Australia for several months in 1940. But that was the past.
Ahead of him, the massive grey Victorian fortification, which had been Günter's base for nearly three months, assured the Welsh coastline a century of protection against invasion. Ironically, Günter and the other Continentals were now patrolling its walls – German refugees in British army uniform on sentry duty protecting Britain, on the look out for Nazi invaders in the bay below.
His friend Ignaz was already rushing towards him, panting. 'Bad news, chap. There's been an accident in the demo room.' Like him, Ignaz was originally from Vienna. His father, a professor of law, had lost his job when the Nazis annexed the country.
'Accident? What sort of accident? What do you mean?'
'Where've you been? You missed it all. But it's lucky for you, it could have been your body blown into the moat.'
'Ignaz, you're not making sense. Slow down.'
'That Major Garratt from the Royal Engineers,' his voice became excited again, garbling the next words as if he couldn't get them out quick enough. 'He was doing explosives training today; only he used live ammo. It went off; one of the grenades went off. Seventeen of them are dead, including two of our lot. We've been scraping bits of blood and guts off the walls all day. It's terrible – there were parts all over the place, we didn't know what belonged to who. It's typical – the first time we get anywhere near weapons and this happens.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Moonlight over Denmark by J.H. Schryer. Copyright © 2011 J.H. Schryer. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.