Editor’s note: This is a story from “Unbreaking the Circle,” a military anthology that will launch on June 28 at the Corrales Community Library.
By Jasmine Tritten
An ominous banging on the front door thundered through our house of Nazi-occupied Denmark in early 1945. Mother and I rushed into the hallway. When she hesitantly opened the heavy oak door, a massive dark figure forcefully barged into our home. I stood next to her.
Terrified, we both leaped backwards. My eyes looked straight into long, black, shiny boots stretching forever upward, topped with a uniform black as a dark night. Terror went through me like bolts of lightning. I shivered from head to toe.
“Are there any Jews in this house?” A loud, husky voice burst out in a guttural German accent filled with determination and authority.
I turned towards my mother and saw her face turn ashen. She leaned backwards with arms flailing to the side uttering “Nooooo,” in a trembling voice. The scary man ignored her answer and intruded into our house, ruthlessly searching through every room upstairs and downstairs.
Horrified, I slipped behind my mother and held on to her skirt. While clinging to the back of her legs I felt her quiver. Each time the invader stepped on the parquet floor, his leather boots squeaked, assailing my ears. I remember covering them both with my hands.
Finally, the intruder walked back towards the front door through our living room, kicking the gray striped couch and the green antique chair on his way. Once more, he turned towards my mother and boomed, “Are you sure there are no Jews hiding in this house?” Again, mother shook her head from side to side and answered in a shaky voice, “There are no Jews in this house.”
After moments of deadly silence, the trespasser finally walked out the door, leaving a wake of terror echoing through our house and a smell of recently polished boots. When my mother lifted me up into her arms, and held me tight for a long time, I felt comforted and secure again. Then she walked over towards the basement, opened a secret door, and quietly whispered to our friends, “Okay, Miriam and Eigil, you can come out now.”
Luckily, my father was not in our house during the frightening episode, but on his way home from helping the Danish Underground. Constantly, we had Jewish people hiding in the loft or basement of our villa, situated next to the water between Denmark and Sweden. A couple of them were friends of my parents.
Sometimes people stayed for days, and Mom cooked for them. Late at night Dad drove them to boats that sailed across the water to safety in Sweden. My father helped numerous Jews to escape the Gestapo. I always think of him as a hero, because he often risked his own life and the lives of my mother and me in the process.
This first memory is still strong in my mind. To this day, I clearly see in front of my eyes the heavy oak door in the light-green hallway and the dark figure of the intruder. I can still smell the newly polished boots and hear them as the strange man marched across the floor.