I sensed, though, that the German occupation of Denmark went down worse with the men than with the women. They took the humiliation more personally and muttered into their breast pockets that they would have happily died trying to delay the Germans’ march into their flat country. ‘Even by just half an hour.’ And that’s men down to a T. They choose death over wounded pride. Women deal with it better because they’re used to lying under strangers.
Still though, I’m not sure the Glistrup approach to defence (abolishing the army and buying an answering machine with a ‘we surrender’ recorded message on it) is the best solution for the wretched nations of the north. It would be more suitable to put together a Nordic army made up of only women. That way there would never be any danger of an invasion. Men never shoot women unless they’re unarmed.
Like the city itself, the embassy had acquired a funereal air. Grandma had aged by a whole decade and was never without a cigarillo. We later realised her marriage was in shreds. In the preceding years Grandad had travelled a great deal, attending meetings in Malmö and Madrid and Icelandic promotions in Brussels and Bern… Grandma didn’t fail to notice that her husband’s daily programme frequently ended with a recital from her niece, Lone Bang.
28
‘Hi, Litla!’
1940
The ambassador’s residence had now been transferred to the district of Kalvebod Brygge, and it offered a wonderful view of the harbour. Grandma Georgía described how she and Grandad had stood at the living-room window a month before, on the evening of Monday, 8 April, watching a fleet of German cargo ships file past. The old lady had a nose for major events and immediately sensed what was about to happen, but she and Grandad were perhaps the only people in the country who knew the Germans were preparing to occupy Denmark. The Icelandic ambassador had heard it mentioned at meetings in London before Christmas, a secret that he had tried to whisper to the Danish authorities on several occasions but that was always met with total deniaclass="underline" ‘That will never happen!’ At five thirty the next morning, on 9 April a thousand warplanes appeared in the skies of majestic Copenhagen.
Dad came in mid-June. He had broken his arm in the military academy and been given three weeks’ sick leave. ‘My God, did you break your Hitler salute?’ Grandma asked in Danish, without waiting for an answer, marching towards the living room along the glistening corridor with such force that the ash fell from the small cigar she held at the height of her right hip, as if she were towing a toy on a string.
Mum kissed him on the cheek with her bright red lipstick. He carried her kiss until dinnertime, when Helle asked him if he’d injured himself.
It was strange to see the Nazi novice so intimidated by two women in civvies. His coyness seemed particularly at odds with his SS uniform. At home every general is reduced to a private. There was also something slightly pathetic about the way he greeted his fellow soldiers outside Tivoli with a Hitler salute in a cast. Dad always thundered in German with an Icelandic accent, and I frequently got the feeling that the Germans answered him with a ‘Hi, litla!’ – hi, little one.
As a polite little girl, I answered them with a ‘hi,’ much to my father’s horror, since ‘hi’ was pure American.
‘The Hitler salute is no laughing matter! You shouldn’t make fun of war!’
I was allowed to continue sleeping with Mum because Dad slept alone in the guest room, in line with the theory that a German soldier should sleep only with his ideals and Fatherland.
‘And the Führer…’ Mum added with a laugh as she and Grandma sat in a corner of the kitchen crocheting, chatting and smoking, while Helle stirred the macaroni stew.
‘As soon as men stop loving their women and start loving other men, then we get war,’ said the cook over the pot.
Dad was quick to realise that there was no point in fighting the female army at home and turned his attention to me instead. In my memory those were the best times I had with him. We were welcomed everywhere outside the house, and he took me to the royal palace and cafés. His uniform guaranteed us timorous smiles from every waiter and driver. And my friend Åse frequently got to tag along. She was the daughter of the Norwegian plenipotentiary who lived on the floor below us, a lively girl of my age. She taught me how to play ping-pong and rummy and introduced me to Shirley Temple and ringlets. Dad took us to a salon to get professionals to put some into our hair, and we danced and sang ‘Animal Crackers in My Soup’ all the way home. Dad’s presence ensured us the right to laugh in the street. Grandma obviously wasn’t a bit happy about our ringlets, and the day after, when she saw we had shed them in our sleep (I’ve always had impossible hair), she gave the SS man a stern lecture on the stupidity of squandering money. But the old woman descended from a bean-counting race and always had problems with the spendthriftiness of Icelanders.
Åse was dark haired and jovial, but well brought up and placid in that Scandinavian way. She never crossed the yellow line the era had drawn across every moment, every social class. Her parents were collaborators, of course, and I therefore gained a lot of esteem in her eyes when my father appeared in a German uniform. I myself tried to make the most of the situation, balancing myself between him, Mum and Grandma. I’d come running into the kitchen: ‘Dad won’t allow me to have a sugar cube, he’s just a Nazi!’ Or dashing out to Dad: ‘Mum won’t let me wear my Sunday shoes in Tivoli. She doesn’t understand National Socio… Socianism.’
Åse had a subscription to the Tivoli amusement park. I made Dad buy one for me, too, and got her to guide me around it like Alice in Wonderland. We fantasised about being two orphans in a turbulent world at war, who always managed to scrape out alive from the Allies’ torture machines, such as American bumper cars, British ghost trains and French Ferris wheels. The little women with the big war code names, Åshild and Herbjörg, ran out of the war park screeching but suddenly shut up when they met four German soldiers on the pavement outside.
‘Why were you afraid of them?’ I said.
‘I wasn’t afraid of them.’
‘Yes! You immediately shut up. I thought you were with the Germans.’
‘You should never laugh at a guy with a gun, my dad says. How come you don’t support the Germans like your dad?’
‘Mum says the whole war is to be blamed on one man. And that the only thing he needs is love.’
‘But we all love him.’
‘But are you sure he loves you?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s a weird kind of love, then. He does nothing but scream.’
‘Hitler loves Germany like his own arm, Dad says. He’s willing to die for it.’
‘Why does he want to die for his arm?’
‘Huh?’
‘If you sacrifice yourself for an arm, you’ll just leave one arm behind when you die. What can you do with a severed arm?’
‘Oh, Herra, I just mean that he’s prepared to die for his country. Wouldn’t you be prepared to die for Iceland?’
‘No.’
‘No? If your country were in danger, if some dragon were about to eat it or something?’
‘What would the country gain from me dying? Countries don’t want people to die for them. They just want to be left in peace.’
‘But if someone takes them?’
‘You can’t take countries, Mum says.’
‘Hey! The Germans took Denmark. In ten minutes! And Norway in a fortnight. The British took you and… and the Danes have had Iceland for hundreds of years!’
‘Yeah? And what has it changed for us? What am I? Danish, English or Icelandic?’
Åse looked into my eyes and opened her mouth, which uttered no sound. The answer was clear.