from what seemed a fitful slumber.
Always a loner, Knud Taasing was born in 1961 to a full-blown hippie, flowing robes and all (before most even knew the hippie age was dawning). His mother had joined the first protest march against nuclear power—from Holbæk to Copenhagen—shortly after giving birth and still somewhat swollen from the difficult labor. Despite the after pains she was suffering, she abandoned her son as easily as a tumbleweed blowing in the wind and had wandered south with a handsome Spaniard (as women did back then). She traveled more than 1,200 miles south through Europe to a large commune in Andalusia, leaving Knud to his factory-worker father who lived in a small row house in a Copenhagen suburb.
Later father and son returned to the island from which the family derived its name, Taasinge, and where relatives had settled more than a century earlier. Knud, Nils had noticed, never spoke of his time there. Not that he asked about it—he didn’t.
Knud had evidently spent the night scanning old articles until he’d finally slouched onto an overturned green plastic wastebasket, where he had fallen asleep. When the first and only guest of the day edged his way through the labyrinthine stacks of paper, books, and ring binders to his uncomfortable bed, his eyes were still half-shut.
With some difficulty, Knud got to his feet, mumbling a greeting to the effect of “Is it morning already?” He smelled vaguely of alcohol and oil—strangely enough—as though he, in the middle of his nighttime reading, had gone for a refreshing dip in the slick black water of the harbor basin. A single weekly magazine rested on the table. Stapled to it was a receipt from the Green Messengers.
Nils Jensen stepped closer. The magazine was a forty-seven-year-old issue of Billed Bladet , and had cost just seventy-five øre a copy back then. The cover text was set in the same blocky red letters the magazine employed today, nearly a half a century later. It was dated December 27, 1961.
Nils leaned in. The black-and-white cover showed a boy with big, frightened eyes and tightly closed lips. Across the child’s striped shirt, the graphic designer had chosen a cursive font characteristic of the time for the four simple but strongly appealing words: Who will adopt me?
“I found a reference to this article on the Association for Adopted Children’s website,” Knud said, one eye half-open. “And voilà, look what I discovered … ” He lifted the magazine and then let it fall dramatically on the table.
The two photos the anonymous sender had copied and mailed to the Ministry of National Affairs and Independent Weekend appeared in the centerfold of the magazine. The beautiful brown villa in the golden circle filled the entire left page. On the right—under the words “The Seven Dwarves”—the magazine had printed the photo that had fascinated Knud for hours the day before.
In the black-and-white reproduction, the seven small babies were assembled on duvets and blankets under a towering Christmas tree. The caption was the same as the one they’d read in the anonymous letter: The seven dwarves—five boys and two girls—live in the Elephant Room and are all ready to find a good home in the new year!
This was followed by the statement Knud considered so intriguing: Because the biological parents’ identity can be protected, they choose adoption rather than illegal abortion. It is rumored that famous Danes, whose names and reputations would be damaged beyond repair by prying eyes, have benefitted from the discretion of Mother’s Aid Society. In these cases, it is essential that the identities of the biological parents are kept secret .
No names were provided for the children in the photograph, nor was any other information given about them. The allusion to Walt Disney’s beloved dwarves was due, of course, to the fact that the children were all wearing elf hats.
Knud was surprisingly alert despite the fact he’d spent
Always a loner, Knud Taasing was born in 1961 to a full-blown hippie, flowing robes and all (before most even knew the hippie age was dawning). His mother had joined the first protest march against nuclear power—from Holbæk to Copenhagen—shortly after giving birth and still somewhat swollen from the difficult labor. Despite the after pains she was suffering, she abandoned her son as easily as a tumbleweed blowing in the wind and had wandered south with a handsome Spaniard (as women did back then). She traveled more than 1,200 miles south through Europe to a large commune in Andalusia, leaving Knud to his factory-worker father who lived in a small row house in a Copenhagen suburb.
Later father and son returned to the island from which the family derived its name, Taasinge, and where relatives had settled more than a century earlier. Knud, Nils had noticed, never spoke of his time there. Not that he asked about it—he didn’t.
Knud had evidently spent the night scanning old articles until he’d finally slouched onto an overturned green plastic wastebasket, where he had fallen asleep. When the first and only guest of the day edged his way through the labyrinthine stacks of paper, books, and ring binders to his uncomfortable bed, his eyes were still half-shut.
With some difficulty, Knud got to his feet, mumbling a greeting to the effect of “Is it morning already?” He smelled vaguely of alcohol and oil—strangely enough—as though he, in the middle of his nighttime reading, had gone for a refreshing dip in the slick black water of the harbor basin. A single weekly magazine rested on the table. Stapled to it was a receipt from the Green Messengers.
Nils Jensen stepped closer. The magazine was a forty-seven-year-old issue of Billed Bladet , and had cost just seventy-five øre a copy back then. The cover text was set in the same blocky red letters the magazine employed today, nearly a half a century later. It was dated December 27, 1961.
Nils leaned in. The black-and-white cover showed a boy with big, frightened eyes and tightly closed lips. Across the child’s striped shirt, the graphic designer had chosen a cursive font characteristic of the time for the four simple but strongly appealing words: Who will adopt me?
“I found a reference to this article on the Association for Adopted Children’s website,” Knud said, one eye half-open. “And voilà, look what I discovered … ” He lifted the magazine and then let it fall dramatically on the table.
The two photos the anonymous sender had copied and mailed to the Ministry of National Affairs and Independent Weekend appeared in the centerfold of the magazine. The beautiful brown villa in the golden circle filled the entire left page. On the right—under the words “The Seven Dwarves”—the magazine had printed the photo that had fascinated Knud for hours the day before.
In the black-and-white reproduction, the seven small babies were assembled on duvets and blankets under a towering Christmas tree. The caption was the same as the one they’d read in the anonymous letter: The seven dwarves—five boys and two girls—live in the Elephant Room and are all ready to find a good home in the new year!
This was followed by the statement Knud considered so intriguing: Because the biological parents’ identity can be protected, they choose adoption rather than illegal abortion. It is rumored that famous Danes, whose names and reputations would be damaged beyond repair by prying eyes, have benefitted from the discretion of Mother’s Aid Society. In these cases, it is essential that the identities of the biological parents are kept secret .
No names were provided for the children in the photograph, nor was any other information given about them. The allusion to Walt Disney’s beloved dwarves was due, of course, to the fact that the children were all wearing elf hats.
Knud was surprisingly alert despite the fact he’d spent
Similar Books
