parachute troops had taken the bridge without a fight. Telegraph operators at railway stations in Nykøbing and later in Vordingborg, aware of the German advance, rang head office in Copenhagen to ask if they ought to report it to the military authorities. They were told to mind their own business and thatâs what they did â and that was also what my father planned to do, and the rest of Nykøbing with him.
The Second World War passed straight through the town and out the other side like a bullet that hit nothing and did no damage because it met with no resistance â and it was left to others to show the courage and the strength required to stand in the way. This was right up my fatherâs street, and he was able to resume his daily duties at the office, to go on his excursions with the choir and to attend lodge meetingson Wednesdays as if nothing had happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Ib.
âWell, how about getting to work?â he said.
But Ib was gone.
I t was summer and the hedges were chirping, blue tits leapfrogged in the air, and Mother and Father and I sat eating lunch on the terrace. A lawnmower droned in the distance, and out on the road the girls jumped in hula hoops and skipped and peed their pants. Susanne had forget-menot eyes and fair hair and freckles and all the children in kindergarten sang
Under the arches
and knew I was in love.
When I started at school, I would sit and write letters to her â will you? wonât you? do you? donât you? â and fold the paper into envelopes that I never gave her. I hoped that she would say yes anyway, and at the party at the end of the first year we held hands and walked round and round the kiss that was waiting for me like a bee in a blackberry bush.
I cycled out to the beach, taking the main road that went up hill and down dale, heading straight out to where the larks would be singing above the sea-wall. There was the scent of pine and heather and salt water, and I lay there all day long thinking of Susanne and listening to the grasshoppers quivering and jigsawing their way through the stillness until Marielyst erupted in my ears and made my spine shiver with sheer delight.
S ex was the mysterious X and had no place in our family. I never saw my parents undressed â not once â and if it was ever mentioned on the radio when we were driving, they would immediately switch to another programme and pretend it hadnât happened. It was a no-go zone riddled with guilt and shame; just to mention it would be enough to get your hands chopped off at the table, and Iâd be keeping well clear.
It was not just that it was unmentionable. It was also unthinkable, and I could not really form an idea of what it was. It was just round the corner, hiding under the bed and out in the dark, waiting for me, crouching, ready to attack me at any moment. I couldnât get it out of my head. Something was missing. There was an enigma, dangerous and forbidden, and when I was alone at home I went exploring without ever knowing what I was looking for.
We were visiting Grandmother in Frankfurt, and I took the chance to creep across to the bookshelves in the living room. They were massive and made of dark mahogany with cut glass in the doors, and they were full of books â Papa Schneider collected them. I started with the largest volume I could find that had pictures, leafing through Greek temples and Roman ruins and a world of flora and fauna â the flowers all coloured by hand â and then I started out on the encyclopaedia,
Der Groβe Brockhaus
. These were heavy books bound in black, dark-blue and gold, and they contained everything.
âJeden Tag ich Brockhaus preiss, denn erweiss, was ich nicht weiss,â
Mother said â and I was sure this was it when I came to the letter âMâ for âmanâ and looked up â
Der Mensch
â.
There was an illustration of a naked woman. She was
The Second World War passed straight through the town and out the other side like a bullet that hit nothing and did no damage because it met with no resistance â and it was left to others to show the courage and the strength required to stand in the way. This was right up my fatherâs street, and he was able to resume his daily duties at the office, to go on his excursions with the choir and to attend lodge meetingson Wednesdays as if nothing had happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Ib.
âWell, how about getting to work?â he said.
But Ib was gone.
I t was summer and the hedges were chirping, blue tits leapfrogged in the air, and Mother and Father and I sat eating lunch on the terrace. A lawnmower droned in the distance, and out on the road the girls jumped in hula hoops and skipped and peed their pants. Susanne had forget-menot eyes and fair hair and freckles and all the children in kindergarten sang
Under the arches
and knew I was in love.
When I started at school, I would sit and write letters to her â will you? wonât you? do you? donât you? â and fold the paper into envelopes that I never gave her. I hoped that she would say yes anyway, and at the party at the end of the first year we held hands and walked round and round the kiss that was waiting for me like a bee in a blackberry bush.
I cycled out to the beach, taking the main road that went up hill and down dale, heading straight out to where the larks would be singing above the sea-wall. There was the scent of pine and heather and salt water, and I lay there all day long thinking of Susanne and listening to the grasshoppers quivering and jigsawing their way through the stillness until Marielyst erupted in my ears and made my spine shiver with sheer delight.
S ex was the mysterious X and had no place in our family. I never saw my parents undressed â not once â and if it was ever mentioned on the radio when we were driving, they would immediately switch to another programme and pretend it hadnât happened. It was a no-go zone riddled with guilt and shame; just to mention it would be enough to get your hands chopped off at the table, and Iâd be keeping well clear.
It was not just that it was unmentionable. It was also unthinkable, and I could not really form an idea of what it was. It was just round the corner, hiding under the bed and out in the dark, waiting for me, crouching, ready to attack me at any moment. I couldnât get it out of my head. Something was missing. There was an enigma, dangerous and forbidden, and when I was alone at home I went exploring without ever knowing what I was looking for.
We were visiting Grandmother in Frankfurt, and I took the chance to creep across to the bookshelves in the living room. They were massive and made of dark mahogany with cut glass in the doors, and they were full of books â Papa Schneider collected them. I started with the largest volume I could find that had pictures, leafing through Greek temples and Roman ruins and a world of flora and fauna â the flowers all coloured by hand â and then I started out on the encyclopaedia,
Der Groβe Brockhaus
. These were heavy books bound in black, dark-blue and gold, and they contained everything.
âJeden Tag ich Brockhaus preiss, denn erweiss, was ich nicht weiss,â
Mother said â and I was sure this was it when I came to the letter âMâ for âmanâ and looked up â
Der Mensch
â.
There was an illustration of a naked woman. She was
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