By Clara Dahl Hansen
I was 10 years old when the Germans invaded Denmark on April 9, 1940. There was a deafening noise from heavy German planes over Southern Jutland. It was terrifying. Father had gone to the dairy. Sister Kirsten and I were heading to school. We cycled along small roads and paths and arrived. We were the only ones who showed up, so teacher Petersen told us to hurry home because the Germans had arrived and no one knew what could happen. Mother was pacing because Father hadn’t returned from the milk run. He had to cross Highway 8, the route the German columns were taking. He made it home after a few hours’ delay. It was said that the local Germans welcomed the German soldiers with homemade rhubarb wine. Danish farmers placed agricultural machinery on the roads to block the way. There had been fighting between Danish and German soldiers, with losses on the Danish side. In the evening, we couldn’t light any lamps, but soon we got blackout curtains for the windows. We hadn’t had electricity installed yet, and now it was postponed. We had kerosene lamps, but kerosene became rationed due to scarcity, so we used carbide and candles. All old candle stubs were melted down to make new ones.
It was said that the local Germans welcomed the German soldiers with homemade rhubarb wine. Danish farmers placed agricultural machinery on the roads to block the way.
The small village school was divided into two classes, one Danish and one German. In the Danish class, we had teacher Petersen, who did his best to teach 30 children across seven different grade levels. In the German class, teacher Fabricius ruled, and you could hear it from a distance. We shared a schoolyard with the children from the German class, and now the peace in the schoolyard was also threatened. The German children told us that now they were in charge. We certainly didn’t agree with that. So, it was arranged that we had staggered recesses to avoid clashes.
To get to school, we had to cross the railway. Sometimes we had to wait because the barrier was down. Trains carrying German soldiers and war materials had to pass. Whether the soldiers thought we were there to greet them, I don’t know, but they threw some dry biscuits at us. No one touched them. Most of our neighbors were local Germans. We had a decent neighborhood relationship, but we knew each other’s affiliations, so politics was not something to discuss. It was worse with the “blakkede” (unreliable ones), as you didn’t know where they stood. Some of the young people from the neighborhood joined the Hitler Youth. They marched past our home in a group, fully uniformed. The girls wore black skirts, white blouses, and black ties. The boys were in black trousers, white shirts, black ties, and long boots. One of them commented that it was good they had sent the police and border guards to the Frøslev camp. In the evenings, we could see the lights from the watchtowers in the Frøslev camp. As soon as the British overflights began, the spotlights in the camp were turned off. On calm nights, we could hear air raid sirens from Flensburg. We were always scared when we heard planes overhead. The British planes hummed, the German planes droned. When there were overflights, anti-aircraft guns were activated. We could see how the searchlights scanned for the planes. Occasionally, they would catch a plane with two beams of light, and then the cannons would fire. We sometimes found shrapnel around the house after such a night. We also found leaflets from the German overflights. They were propaganda pamphlets. They were in German, so we couldn’t read them. My mother could speak German since, as a South Jutlander, she had to attend a German school during World War I. She said the leaflets were nonsense. She had experienced World War I when her father was sent to war, and she was afraid it would happen again; that Danish men would be conscripted into the German army. At home, we used peat for heating, which we dug ourselves from the bog. If they were dry, they were good fuel, but since it often rained, it was an art to get them to burn. Mother was often distressed by how difficult it was to get enough heat to cook and warm the living room and kitchen. Often, we would sit around the kitchen table in the evening to keep warm and save on light. In the early years of the war, we had three harsh winters with heavy snowfall. To get to school, we had to walk across the fields. We got winter break because the school couldn’t be heated. I don’t remember how long it lasted, but I recall finding snow remnants in ditches in May, where the sun couldn’t reach.
There was a state of emergency declared in Denmark on August 29, 1943. I was walking behind the potato harvester with the other children from the area to collect potatoes. We received the news about the state of emergency in the middle of the potato field. Both we and the German children were confused about what it meant, but shortly after, the unpleasantness accelerated. Pastor Andersen, who confirmed me, was taken by the Germans to the Frøslev camp. The same happened to the photographer and the grain dealer from Tinglev and many others. The railway was blown up, both by sabotage and from the air. An English fighter plane had crashed in a nearby field. We went right up to it and looked. The pilots had escaped. The area was cordoned off, and the plane was removed by the Wehrmacht.
We shared a schoolyard with the children from the German class, and now the peace in the schoolyard was also threatened. The German children told us that now they were in charge. We certainly didn’t agree with that.
Overflights increased, and we woke almost every night to the familiar hum of planes and cannon fire. We could hear the bombing in Flensburg and Kiel. Finally, May 4, 1945, arrived. On the English broadcast, we were told that if there was armed conflict, we should head out into open fields so the Allies could see us. The Germans might try to hide in the houses. Mother had packed a small suitcase with the essentials. Fortunately, it wasn’t needed. It was a restless relief and joy when we heard from London that the German troops had surrendered. The war was over, and we could sleep peacefully again. The next day, we cycled to Kruså to greet the English troops. Later, we went to a celebration on Dybbøl Banke. We rode there with many others on the back of trucks. It was indescribably festive.
But then came the aftermath for those who had been in uniform or had otherwise participated in the Wehrmacht’s work. Now it was they who were taken to the Frøslev camp, or Padborg camp, as it came to be known. We saw the German army marching south, tattered and torn. They set up night camps nearby and tried to find food wherever they could.
One of the soldiers knocked on our door, and we invited him to our table. He told us that he was from East Germany and hadn’t heard from his family in a long time. He didn’t know if they were still alive or if he even had a home to return to. He showed us pictures of his family.
And then there were the young Danish men who had enlisted in the SS. Some had fallen, while others returned as wrecks. One of them was a young man from the area who had had a troubled upbringing and struggled in school. He had been persuaded to become an SS soldier. He told my brother that he felt terrible about being sent to the Eastern Front and participating in the atrocities that took place there. He later committed suicide.
In the spring of 1946, King Christian X and Queen Alexandrine toured Southern Jutland. I attended with a bouquet of flowers from our garden. I personally handed it to them and received a handshake from both the king and queen.